Mind Over Body
by Dangerous Bliss
Summary: Moriarty has a new invention which he decides to test on himself and John, causing them to switch bodies. Pretending to be John won't be easy but he's prepared to take the challenge. The question is, will Sherlock notice the difference? Post-Reichenbach, Jim and John, body swap! Part 1 in the Perception Chronicles, SEQUEL NOW UP!
1. Chapter 1: Let the Game Begin

Chapter 1

Jim Moriaty stood in awe at the towering machine just a few feet in front of him. Running his hand over its cold metal exterior lovingly, and letting his mind fill with possibilities, he wondered at his own intelligence. Ignoring the other people in the room and instead focussing on his most recent delight, Jim found himself anxious to show his new toy to someone who would appreciate its beauty; unlike the imbeciles he surrounded himself with on a day-to-day basis. He knew without looking that they were all staring at him, waiting for an order, and growing more impatient with every second. They meant little to Jim, and he made sure they knew it. They were just hired guns to do his dirty work for him, and would never understand the childish glee that Jim got from the large and exciting machine in the room. There was not one man in the group who would match even half of Jim's genius, so there was little question as to who would give the orders. Occasionally one of his men would dare to disagree with him, having not heard the rumours or choosing to ignore them. Jim made sure to kill, or at least maim, these imbeciles not only to keep his men fearful of him, but because he enjoyed it. He loved to watch their eyes fill with terror and pain as they slowly bled out on the floor next to him; it was the highlight of his day. That was something his employees would never understand, along with why this machine was so important to him. It didn't really concern him, he didn't need them to understand, only to wait and receive his orders. They could wait a few more minutes while he finished admiring his invention.  
He had never expected anything to come from his ideas, and yet here it was, the greatest invention mankind had seen since the first light bulb. He longed to test his wonderful invention right there and then, however the timing was not yet right, and the plan still needed to be finalised. There had been a plan in his mind from the beginning, but since the machine had finally taken shape and his wildest dreams had come true, Jim found himself uncertain.  
The original plan had been to test the machine on Sherlock, however after careful consideration, he realised that this would be very predictable and therefore so very boring. And Jim Moriaty was never, ever boring.  
So he had let his mind wander with thoughts and ideas of other possible scenarios, and had finally come across one which may turn out quite interesting, with the right subtle hints and a considerable amount of good acting. Yes, he mused, a smirk forming on his pale face, his onyx eyes dancing with an inner light that only shone during his most exciting endeavours. Sherlock was such an obvious choice since they shared so many traits, but how about another player in the ongoing game? Someone close to Sherlock, so close he would never expect it... And ultimately, surprise him like no one had ever done before. To leave the emotionless sociopath completely speechless would certainly be a challenge. But Jim loved challenges, games, really anything that would allow his intelligent brain to find an overly elaborate and complicated solution. The more thinking and planning to be done, the more Jim loved it. That was why he had revelled so much in other games he had put forward to the younger Holmes brother, they had been deliciously complicated and so very satisfying.  
He'd known all along how both were going to end, right down to Sherlock's apparent "suicide" and Jim's taking his own life. Of course, the blood had been fake for that, which he was surprised Sherlock had not picked up on, though he couldn't blame him considering the situation the poor man had been forced into. Obviously Jim knew that Sherlock's suicide had been faked too, had known since the beginning of that night that the detective had been planning it. The only sure way to keep his friends safe and allow him to hunt the snipers down without the added attention caused by Jim's little game. He had hunted Jim's snipers down with a cold malice, and had killed every one of them without breaking a sweat. It had only taken him a year before he returned to his apartment on Baker Street and resumed his life where he'd left it. There was little fuss from the media thanks to Sherlock's older brother Mycroft, and after the first few awkward months with John, life had simply continued smoothly.  
Jim had kept himself out of the way, and so far the detective had suspected nothing. That would soon change, but for now Jim was perfectly happy to let the duo continue their lives in ignorant bliss. A bliss that would soon take an unexpected turn for the worst. Jim grinned and turned to face the collection of gunmen and criminals he'd acquired over the last couple of months.  
"Gentlemen, gather your stuff. The game starts now," Jim said. "First up to roll the dice is a certain Doctor John Watson, who I should very much like brought back here completely unharmed. Am I making myself completely clear?" There were a few nods from the group before they retreated from the room to gather their equipment, leaving Jim alone with the machine. He turned to face it again and let his smirk grow into a full grin as he watched the reflection of his face in the shiny exterior of the machine. Now all he had to do was wait. The doctor would never know what hit him.


	2. Chapter 2: If Only

Chapter 2

John had been having the most wonderful dream full of happy memories and laughter, the kind that no one ever wants to wake up from. As the dream faded, he began to stir and finally opened his eyes. The one thing he did not expect to see was his flatmate's piercing blue eyes staring unblinkingly back at him just a few inches away. Had he been living in a normal flat with a normal best friend, John would undoubtedly have jumped from shock at the unexpectedness of the situation. But Sherlock was far from normal, and John had woken up to far worse on many occasions. As it was, he just groaned before muttering something unintelligible and rubbing his eyes.  
"Fascinating," Sherlock rumbled in his deep baritone voice, before turning away and walking out of John's room. There was little point in asking what on earth Sherlock had been doing in his room, so John just sighed and prepared to get out of bed.  
Five minutes later, he was downstairs making a cup of tea for each of them and making a mental check list of everything he would need to get from the shop. John wished for once that the genius detective he shared the flat with would offer to do the shopping, however he knew from experience that Sherlock would rather go without food than lower himself to the mundane task of food shopping. With another quick sigh (these seemed to be occurring more frequently lately) John picked up the two mugs and carried them out to the lounge where his friend patiently waited. After handing him the tea and retreating to the opposite sofa, the ex-army doctor picked up a dog eared book from the table and began to read. Sherlock was never much one for idle conversation, instead preferring the company of his own thoughts during the first few hours of the day. He was barely five pages in to the novel when Sherlock's deep voice shattered the peaceful morning silence, "Lestrade texted. Apparently there's a new case and he wants my professional opinion. A woman has been found murdered with some rather peculiar markings surrounding the body. I told him we'd be there in half an hour."  
John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was always very quick to assume that he would drop what he was doing to go and look at a case. Looking at him, John scowled and replied, "I have to go shopping, Sherlock. At least one of us needs food, and it's not going to magically appear in the cupboards. You'll have to go on your own." Looking back, John didn't know why he had replied so angrily, for the resulting consequences were very dire indeed.  
"Dull," Sherlock replied monotonously. "How you could ever forfeit the chance to examine a body for the incredibly boring task of shopping I don't know."

"Well I wouldn't expect you to understand that some people have to go shopping, especially when their obnoxious flat mates refuse to go at all," John said dryly. Sherlock scoffed at this in that annoyingly superior way of his, and usually John would ignore it, however today he had just had enough.

"The world does not revolve around you, you know. I'm not at your beck and call either. I don't have to stand by you at every moment, but I do. That's what friends do. I would appreciate it if you would help once in a while, or at least ask me what I want to do before you assume anything." John realised he had been ranting, but couldn't help himself. Sherlock could be so unaware of other people's feelings sometimes. For a second, he thought Sherlock would apologise, but the sociopath was not known for such things, and his reply was not the least bit surprising.

"You should give me more credit than that John. Of course I know that the earth does not revolve around me. Neither are you at my beck and call, you usually refuse to answer if I do happen to shout you, which is not very often. Now can we please stop arguing and get ready to leave? The longer we wait the more likely it is that Anderson will have potentially ruined crucial evidence."

"You're such a prat, you know that right?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, which only infuriated John further and caused him to grit his teeth to keep from saying something he might regret later.

"I've had enough. I'm going for a walk." John set down his novel and stood, before walking over to the door of the flat. He didn't bother to retrieve anything but his wallet, which he would need for the shopping, and his gun which he kept with him at all times when he wasn't in the flat. Then, he was walking along Baker Street and debating all the possible things he or Sherlock could have said to have made the last 10 minutes more bearable. He did not regret the argument; it helped to let off a bit of steam occasionally while living with Sherlock. It was true that the man was difficult to live with, but John wouldn't trade his life for any other. He had everything he had ever wanted, and more.  
He began to feel better as he reminisced about their extraordinary adventures, and his mood continued to improve as he walked along. If he had not so thoughtful he may have noticed the black car that trailed lazily behind him. If he had not been so unaware of his surroundings he may have noticed the car stop and two men get out. If he had not slowed down he may have heard the footsteps behind him. So many ifs, but John Watson was not so lucky. There was little he could do as they grabbed him and shoved him roughly into the waiting car, even with his military training. The last thing he remembered was a hand holding a cloth over his mouth, and then everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3: Peace of Mind

**Just a slight warning for mild language at the end of this chapter, enjoy!**

It had been three hours since his men had left to find the doctor and yet they had still not returned. Jim had started pacing about half an hour ago while he waited impatiently, but the group had not called to let him know that they were going to be late, or even that they were still alive. There was little that he could do, and it frustrated him. If Mycroft Holmes had been watching John then he surely would have seen Jim's men take him, and stopped them. Unfortunately, considering how long they'd been out, it was quite possible.

He had started to throw things every so often when he had started pacing, and the loud crashes as expensive things shattered against the wall were probably the reason everyone had kept away from his office. Jim growled in frustration and checked his phone for the millionth time that minute. Where were they?  
Just at that moment, the door opened and the group came into his office. Jim was first pleased that his waiting was finally over, but he soon realised that they were not in possession of the doctor. He glared at them, angry that they would dare to show their faces without what he had specifically asked for.

"Well?" He growled, giving them a withering glare. One of the men, a slightly shorter man with a shaven head and stocky build stepped forward out of the group.

"We brought him, as you asked sir," Jim physically relaxed at this statement and his glare melted away into the smile of a mad genius who had got what he most wanted. "He's downstairs with the machine. We had to wait for a while before he came out of his flat, but we got him with little trouble."

"Good," Jim grinned happily. "Now, we'd better get started, wouldn't want anyone to miss out little friend would we?" He skipped happily to the door and descended the stairs with a spring in his step. Now there was only one more thing left to do before they could start to play.

He threw open the door to the basement office where the machine was kept and skipped over to it. John, still unconscious, had already been strapped in, and the metal cap on his head made him look quite silly. Jim giggled at the absurdity of the situation before turning to the other people in the room.

"Let's begin," he said, unable to keep the excitement from showing on his face. He gestured for two of his helpers to assist him, and sat down in the chair next to John. He felt positively giddy, and couldn't stop the nervous twitch of his hands as the men lowered the metal cap onto his head. It was cold and heavy, but Jim didn't mind. Surprisingly, he felt a flutter of anxiety as they moved away to start up the machine, an his thoughts sped up as he realised the process would probably be painful. No going back now, he thought.

When he heard the machine start up he tried to relax, but found he could not stop the nervous tremor in his hands, which was absurd considering the situations he had not been nervous in. His men were looking at him anxiously and he gave them a small smile to show that they should continue. For a second there was nothing except the whirring sound of the machine, but suddenly Jim was filled with a sharp pain that travelled all down his body. He shut his eyes and moaned from the agony, clenching his fists as it travelled through him in waves. The pain was getting steadily worse and he found that he could not think of anything except the awful agony he had subjected his body to. He had no idea how long it lasted, but after a while the pain began to recede slowly, and he found that he was aware of his surroundings. Jim began to recall his memories and suddenly realised he had no idea if the machine had worked or not. It certainly would have been a waste if he had endured all that pain for nothing. Trying to open his eyes, he squinted at the brightness of the room and let his eyes adjust before opening. His men were all staring at him worriedly, eyes wide and guns at the ready. He smiled tightly to show he was alright before asking, "Well? Did it work?" The men did not need to answer, he had heard the voice that came out of his mouth. The voice of one Doctor John Hamish Watson. Unable to contain his excitement, he looked over to the other chair, the one he had been sitting in only moments before. In the chair was his own body, still unconscious, and he had little doubt that John would freak out when he woke up. Jim would miss his own body of course, but it would be worth it to see John's reaction to the situation he found himself in.

Jim slowly looked down at his new body, with calloused, older hands so different from the ones he knew, and a very unfashionable jumper and trousers. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, exploring his new features. It would certainly take some getting used to.

One of the men had stepped forward to help him, and Jim let him take his weight as he was lifted from the chair. He was wobbly and had to lean against the man, however much he disliked feeling dependant. As another man started to walk towards him he waved them away before demanding a mirror in his new, deeper voice. He waited patiently while someone went to find one, and reached for it eagerly when they returned. Holding it up to his face, he had to stifle a gasp. John's face stared back at him, and he felt strange controlling the features that were now his. He had to touch his face to be sure, and when the mirror copied his actions his eyes lit up in triumph. Feeling stronger, he shrugged off the support of the other man and turned to the body which had once been his. John was still unconscious, and he had a feeling that the doctor had a much worse time than himself during the shift. He supposed the chloroform would not have really helped, though he was very glad that he had woken up first, it would make for a much better reaction from the doctor to see his own face looking at him when he woke up. Hopefully he would wake soon, as Jim did not want to stand around waiting all night. Fortunately for him, at that moment John began to stir, and Jim felt quite weird watching someone else in his body. He smirked and prepared what he was going to say when John awoke, and moved himself into the best position, so there would be no way John would miss his own body.

John slowly regained consciousness, and realised with horror that his whole body hurt. He remembered being kidnapped and forced into a car, but he must have been unconscious for the journey. It worried him how he had no idea who had taken him, it meant he didn't know what they wanted. The only man who he thought would have tried something like this was Moriarty, and he was dead. He had shot himself on the roof of St Barts, just seconds before Sherlock himself had jumped. John could not think of anyone else he knew who would take him in this way. He was obviously in the possession of someone who wanted him hurt or dead, since they could not possibly have taken very good care of him considering how much pain he was in now. The strange thing was that every part of his body was in the same amount of pain, and he couldn't think of a form of torture that would produce the same results. The pain seemed to be receding slowly, and John desperately wanted to know where he was, but found that he didn't want to open his eyes. He could hear quiet murmurs on the other side of the room, and he really didn't want them to know he was awake. However, soon a very familiar voice spoke, and John's heart sped up as he tried to place it. It said, "Open your eyes, Johnny! There's a good boy!" It sounded like Moriarty, but it wasn't his voice. It was a voice John had heard more often than any other. His own.  
As he realised this, his eyes flew open. He was no longer concerned with pretending to be asleep, he needed to know what was happening. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight that met his eyes. Before him stood a man with blond hair and blue eyes, grinning like a madman. John couldn't take his eyes off the man, it was like a dream, only he knew it wasn't. The pain was too real. The man's smile seemed to get even wider as he registered John's shocked face. The expression did not belong on the man's face, it was too manic and insane-looking. John knew this because the face that peered back at him was his own.

"Oh Johnny Boy! What fun I am going to have with this!" Said his doppelgänger with a giggle. John's mouth opened in shock, before composing himself quickly. He needed to know why this man looked exactly like he did, and so asked the question he thought was most suitable.

"What the hell is going on?" He growled, but stopped, completely speechless. That wasn't his voice. It was much too high, and had an Irish accent. He also knew this voice, and there was no way it should have been coming out of his mouth. This voice was the voice of a dead man. A man who had caused their lives so much pain and sadness. John began to shake with fear and confusion as he realised who's voice it was. Moriarty.

"Shh don't worry Johnny, Daddy's here!" It sounded wrong coming from the man's mouth, but John was considering something else. Something that would make far too much sense. He hoped to God it wasn't true. But God had never answered his prayers before, and he certainly didn't start in that moment. It was almost as if The man had read his mind, as he proceeded to hold up a mirror that he had been holding, though he angled it away from John so that he couldn't see himself. He held it out and gestured for John to take it. Slowly, he reached for it, hand shaking as he grasped the handle. He pulled it back and took a deep breath to steady himself before looking in. Three seconds later he dropped the mirror from shock, but he had already seen everything he needed to. His face was no longer his own. The face belonged to Moriarty. As the mirror hit the floor, it shattered into a million pieces, as did John's opinion of the unreal.

"Holy shit," he said.


	4. Chapter 4: The Notorious Criminal

John had never felt so sacred and confused in all his life. Moriarty always seemed to have one trick or another up his sleeve, but this was more than John could have ever imagined. It was completely impossible. It was like his life had been replaced with that of a cheap horror movie, only this was real. Jim had not stopped watching him, and John was finding it harder and harder not to have a nervous breakdown. Jim seemed to grow tired of John's stunned silence, as his smile began to fade, and a slightly bored look replaced it. Finally, he spoke,"The game begins again!" He said it with a grin that looked so out of place on John's own face that the doctor finally snapped. His eyes narrowed, he gritted his teeth, and promptly punched Jim in the face. Looking back, he had to say that it was one of the most satisfying moments of his life. The man had obviously not been expecting such violent treatment, and fell backwards, clutching his jaw, eyes full of hatred. John had packed a hard punch, though was disappointed when Jim managed to keep his balance. It seemed he had crossed the line, for Jim signalled for two of his lackeys to come forward and seize John by the forearms, easily lifting his skinnier body out of the chair. They kept hold of his arms, which John was grateful for, as he surely would have fallen over if not for their support. Jim looked as though he was contemplating hitting John back, but suddenly his expression changed back into that annoying grin he always seemed to wear. It looked odd on John's features, though he was sure the glare he was giving Jim looked just as strange.

"You certainly know how to hit a man, don't you Johnny Boy?" He said, rubbing his jaw. "Though it's your body I suppose, and you will certainly regret any pain you inflict on me when you get it back!" John looked confused, which only made Jim giggle more. "Oh surely you've figured it out by now!" When he got no response from John, he leaned in closer and whispered, "Me and Sherlock are going to play a little game. I hope you don't mind, but I've borrowed your body for a bit, and lent you mine in return! I'm going to see how long it takes Sherlock to realise something's wrong, after all, how hard could it possibly be for him?" John didn't like where this was going at all, but had a feeling that any response would only make the situation worse for him.

"Well, I need to get going now, Sherlock will be expecting me back soon. You'll be staying with my friends a while but I wouldn't worry- I've told them not to harm you, as I'll need my body back completely unharmed once this is over. Toodaloo, got to go!" With that, he flashed John a huge grin and skipped out the door, followed by most of his henchmen. The two who had John's arms began to drag him towards a different door, which he didn't like the look of one bit, and struggled against his captors. Unfortunately they were strong, and John was no match for them in his weakened state. They went through the door and down some stairs before the passage opened into a room John really didn't want to explore. There were multiple metal bars coming down from the ceiling in a line which caused a cage-like effect one one side of the room, with a door which could be shut and locked if necessary. He was forced into the prison by the two burly men, who threw him down on the floor for good measure. Looking back at them he watched as they locked the door, sealing him into his cage before retreating out of the room. John desperately looked for a means of escape, but could not see a way out of his current predicament without help. He slumped against a wall, defeated, and clenched his fists as he thought of what Moriarty could be doing while he was stuck in his prison. He needed a plan , and fast. Jim had obviously planned something special for the detective, and John doubted that Sherlock would be thrilled to see his worst enemy back from the grave. He needed to warn his friend, before it was too late!


	5. Chapter 5: The Baker Street Boys

Jim got out of the seemingly normal taxi and walked slowly towards the flat that John shared with Sherlock. He went over his answers to the questions he was sure Sherlock would ask him when he entered the flat, and realised how faulty the plan actually was. The detective would surely pick up on the fact that John had been out for over three hours, and when his friend returned without any shopping the man would definitely get suspicious. There was little Jim could do except tell a half truth about meeting an old friend on the way and getting a coffee for a chat. There were so many flaws, but Jim was certain Sherlock would not figure out that John had changed until it was far too late. The machine had done the impossible, and Sherlock was a logical man. He would never suspect something so unbelievable, especially not without proof. And Jim would certainly not give him that.

He took a deep breath and took the key out of his pocket (thank God John had kept it on him) before unlocking the door and trudging upstairs like he imagined John would do. He had been in their flat many times before, usually without being invited, so fortunately would be able to find anything he needed. He opened the door, ready for a bombardment of questions from Sherlock, but he didn't even acknowledge Jim's existence. He tried clearing his throat, but the man would still not look up from his computer screen. His patience began to waver, but he realised that since Sherlock was not trying to engage him in conversation, he would not have to lie to him about where he had been. He smiled to himself and moved towards the kitchen, quickly getting himself out of the way of any sudden reactions the genius detective may have had to his 'return'. He bumbled around the kitchen a bit and felt slightly regretful that he had not caught John after he had done the shopping, as the cupboards were mostly bare. He looked with interest at the body parts stored in the fridge, and felt a new admiration for John. How he had put up with a man like Sherlock Jim would never know. They were quite an odd pair, but Jim now realised that they complimented each other perfectly. Sherlock needed someone to take care of him since he would not be able to do so himself so well, and John needed a spark of adventure in his life or he would have died long ago from boredom. Shutting the fridge, he decided that if all went to plan for the next day and Sherlock suspected nothing, he would go shopping. It would be fun to live John's life for a bit, with no one to suspect it wasn't him.

Suddenly, a call came from the living room, "John! Come here!" Jim was not pleased at being treated like one of Sherlock's pets, but knew that John would not hesitate to go to his friend's aid. He sauntered out the kitchen and into the living room, stopping in the doorway as the detective continued to stare at his laptop. Sherlock didn't really strike Jim as the kind of man who had his eyes permanently glued to a screen, but the detective was full of surprises. At that moment, Sherlock finally looked around and caught John's eye, giving him a brief look over. His eyes narrowed as he took in every aspect of the man before him, and he seemed to suddenly realise how long his friend had been out. Before Sherlock could question him, Jim interrupted with a quick apology, "Sorry about this morning, I was just tired and stressed about work. I didn't really mean any of it." He attempted to make his face look more sincere, as though he really was apologising for the argument that he had never been a part of. He had overheard the argument from that morning, and knew he could use it to his advantage if Sherlock asked him why he was acting so strangely. The other man stared at him for a moment before nodding, apparently believing the apology to be true. Jim waited for Sherlock to apologise too, but he only gave him a small smile before turning back to the screen. He had to give John a lot of credit for sticking around so long with someone so unaware of other people's feelings. Jim also noticed that the laptop did not appear to belong to Sherlock, so John must either be really bad at passwords or had given up keeping the detective off his stuff long ago. There seemed to be a very trustworthy relationship between the two men, one which Jim envied very much. The closest relationship he had ever had with anyone had been with his sniper, Sebastian Moran, who had been unfortunately killed by Sherlock in the months after their suicides had taken place.

Unsure what to do in the awkward silence that followed Sherlock's apparent dismissal of him, Jim walked over to the sofa and sat down. He began to tap a rhythm on his leg, but soon realised that he needed to look like he was actually doing something, and so picked up a battered book and began to read. He realised quickly that this had to be John's, as it was a withered copy of 'The Great Gatsby', and he reckoned Sherlock had never read a fictional novel in his life. He also realised that he and John did not share similar reading habits, and decided that he really didn't like the book. He sighed, and thought about just how long these next few days would last if something eventful didn't happen. He didn't bother to focus on the book, instead, he watched Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Jim couldn't tell what he was doing on John's laptop, but it looked like something interesting, so he decided he would take a look later, once Sherlock had gone to sleep. However, he did not think about the possibility of Sherlock being an insomniac, and soon gave up waiting for him to finish. Jim told Sherlock he was going to bed, but did not get a response. He thought about forcing the man to get some sleep, but didn't know if John normally did so, or how Sherlock would react to someone bossing him around. Unable to do anything else, he slowly made his way upstairs to John's room and sat down on the bed. It was not as designer and modern as he was used to, but it was quite cosy, so he put on some of John's unfashionable pyjamas and got into bed. He didn't usually sleep much himself, but knew it would at least clear his head for the next day. He was slightly grumpy, as he had not annoyed or intimidated anyone for the last few hours, nor had he done anything interesting with his new body. It was frightfully boring to say the least, and he decided he really didn't want to stay as John for the next week. Jim made a deal with himself that if Sherlock had not figured it out by the end of the week, he would tell him in the most dramatic and shocking way possible. This made him smile, and he drifted off into a peaceful slumber in his nice, warm, stolen bed.


	6. Chapter 6: Hiding in Plain Sight

John was confused when he awoke, for it was cold and quiet and it was completely unlike waking up at 221B. There was always traffic, even early in the morning, but he could not hear anything. This worried him, until he remembered what had happened to him the day before. Then he was completely terrified.

He opened his eyes, willing the events to have been a vivid dream, but he was not so lucky. He was still in the prison room of Jim's building, and he was still not in his own body. The beginnings of a plan to escape had formed in his mind the night before, but after waking up to such an awful situation, he realised how futile any action would be. The cage door was locked shut, and there were no windows. The only possible thing he could do was to wait for someone to come and feed him, although he was unsure as to whether any of Jim's men would bother. He began to accept his defeat, with nothing else to do but wait.

However, his thoughts soon turned to Sherlock, and he realised he was being rather selfish. For all he knew, Jim had planned something horrible for his best friend, maybe a plot that John had been evil all along, or something else similarly dramatic. It was essential that he warned Sherlock as soon as he could, before something dreadful happened. Jim was in the perfect position to extract revenge, and no one would ever see it coming.

John turned his head, hopelessly scanning the room for a form of escape, but none came to mind. He was just about to accept defeat when he heard the sound of a door opening at the top of the stairs. He turned eagerly towards it and watched as a burly, middle-aged man came sauntering down, holding a tray of what appeared to be John's dinner. The man obviously was not the brightest, for he fished the keys out of his pocket an unlocked the door, putting the food down and turning his back on John. With lightning-quick reflexes, John jumped the man an managed to incapacitate him in a matter of seconds. He did not stop to think about how "convenient" his escape had been, or how quiet the rest of the building was as he made his escape. There was only one other man he encountered, who had very little in terms of fighting skills, and John was able to knock him out with barely any damage inflicted upon himself. He ran out the front of the building and started to hail a taxi before remembering that Jim had taken his wallet. He rubbed his face with his hands and began to jog towards Baker Street, still in the suit Jim had been wearing when they switched bodies. He did not realise that, as he jogged by, all the security cameras followed him, watching his every movement in great detail.

John was not a stupid man, but even considering the situation he found himself in, he really should have thought about the consequences of turning up at 221B looking like a particularly hated criminal mastermind. He really should have realised that most people would not believe him without proof. Especially a person so rational as Sherlock Holmes. But he didn't think about those things, and in fact, when he reached the flat, he stood on the doorstep and rang the doorbell. Mrs Hudson had gone on holiday, and he really did not expect Sherlock to answer the door given his tendencies to ignore any annoying sound such as the doorbell, but he was pleasantly surprised when this happened. However, Sherlock did not seem in the least bit happy with finding a man who looked an awful lot like his evil counterpart standing in front of him, panting slightly. The tall man's eyes narrowed, and he looked like he was about to say something along the lines of 'go away' or 'what the hell are you doing here', but John cut in first.

"Is he- is John home?" He needed to be sure that Jim was out before talking to Sherlock, as he didn't think he'd like the consequences of him being in the flat. He didn't want to call Jim John while talking to his friend, but knew Sherlock would be confused and slightly suspicious otherwise. John needed Sherlock to believe him.

"No. He went shopping 37 minutes ago," Sherlock said, carefully. His eyes were still narrowed, and when John's shoulders sagged in relief his eyes seemed to narrow even more. "What are you doing here, Moriarty?" The detective said, angrily.

John took a deep breath and just blurted it out, "I'm John, the man currently living with you is Moriarty! He had some kind of machine, and he kidnapped me and-" he was unable to finish, for at that moment Sherlock cut him off in the middle of his explanation.

"You really think that I would believe something so stupid, Jim? You would come to my flat and stand there and tell me something so completely impossible, then expect me to believe it? How on earth could you be so dull?" Sherlock had said this with a sneer, an John finally realised how hopeless his situation really was. He could barely believe the situation, and yet he expected someone else to believe it.

At that moment he heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, and looked round to see Jim in his body just behind him, carrying shopping. It was an absurd situation, but the look in Jim's eyes caused John to start twisting his hands nervously. He noticed Sherlock looking between them with a curious expression, but that all changed when Jim spoke.

"What's he doing here?" Jim hissed, and John had to admit that he was very good at acting. Far too good, as he had evidently just discredited anything John might have said to Sherlock before Jim arrived. Sherlock's low baritone voice made John jump, as he was expecting the silence to continue longer.

"He was trying to spin me a tale about how you are actually Moriarty, and he is John. It's really quite insulting that he should try to make me believe such a fictional event actually occurred." John turned to him, and was surprised to see that the detective was watching Jim's expression as he spoke, rather than John's. However, Jim was certainly prepared, and gave a him a raised eyebrow in response, along with a small smile, as if he though the whole thing was quite amusing. It was exactly the look the real John would have given in the same situation, and he found himself trying to come up with something, anything, to say that would make Sherlock become suspicious of the man before him.

Jim turned his attention to John, and for a fraction of a second he gave John a smirk, and John knew he had lost. Jim's face turned slightly angry again, and he said, "Look, we've had enough of your games, alright? Sherlock obviously doesn't believe you, and I definitely don't, so why don't you leave us alone for a bit? Get some more elaborate plan in your head? One that might actually work would be good." John just stared at him, gobsmacked. Jim was far too good, and John could see Sherlock smiling at the imposter. He desperately tried to think of something to say, but at that moment a black car pulled up and three men got out. John began to shake, as one of the men was Mycroft, and he was known for his harsh treatment of criminals to get information. The fact that John now looked exactly like one of these criminals was not lost on Mycroft, and John knew exactly what was coming before anything actually happened. Jim moved aside so that the two men with Mycroft could grab Jim's arms and force him towards the waiting car.

"No witty remark?" Mycroft said, smiling lazily at John. John said nothing, but turned around to glare at Jim, who was watching him with a smile.

"Bastard," John growled through gritted teeth. Mycroft said nothing, and the two men continued to drag John towards the car, with little resistance from their prisoner. After he was in the car, Mycroft turned to Sherlock and the John look-alike and said, "Goodbye brother. We'll keep him from causing any more harm now." He nodded at Jim as a way of saying bye, and got into the car.

As it drove off, Jim turned to Sherlock, and said, "Good riddance." Sherlock nodded and the two men went back into the flat, still thinking about the conversation, but with very different thoughts in mind.


	7. Chapter 7: Hate and Mercy

Mycroft Holmes kept looking over to his right at the notorious criminal that he had just picked up off his brother's doorstep. He was slightly confused and suspicious, for the man who would normally be playing a silly game of riddles was sitting in complete silence, looking worried even. It made Mycroft nervous, for he was certain the man was planning something. Something that would undoubtedly end in tears, though not literally, for Mycroft had not shed a tear in twenty years. Plus, there was no guarantee that Moriarty would stay in captivity when they got him there, as he had managed to escape every single time they had done so.

He decided that he would rather enjoy putting a stop to the criminal when the time came, but not yet. There was far too much information stored in Moriarty's head for anyone's good, and the British Government needed those secrets as soon as possible. As well as the fact that Jim obviously did not care whether he lived or died ultimately so long as he went in a memorable, exciting way. This made him even more dangerous, as he had nothing to lose, and would not care what he had to give to get what he wanted. Therefore, torture would have to do for now. It would be messy, and Jim had never responded to it before, but Mycroft was also prepared to do what was necessary to get what he wanted, and would not skip any corners when it came to the man slouching next to him.

Taking another look at his face, Mycroft was astonished to see a look of pure defeat on his features, a look he was sure had never seen that face before. This was a side of Jim no one had ever seen before, and Mycroft found that he actually missed the arrogant smirk that the man usually wore, for this was so completely unlike the master criminal. It could be part of some ultimate plan that Moriarty had been planning, and this seemed very likely, but even so, it was a remarkable expression to see on Jim's face.

Another thing that made Mycroft nervous was the looks Moriarty gave him, eyes pleading and mouth open as though he was about to say something, but he always thought better of it. These looks were becoming more frequent as they continued to drive along the streets of London, towards MI6 where Jim would be interrogated. There seemed to be something very wrong with the situation, especially since the criminal had not even tried to escape or plead his innocence yet. The last time Jim had done that was just before Sherlock's fall off St. Barts, and it had been his plan all along to get captured. Mycroft grimaced at the memory, and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He sent a quick text to Anthea, telling her to have multiple armed guards ready for when they arrived, and sat back in his chair, worries mostly taken care of. If only he knew what Moriarty was planning for them all, it would make his day so much easier.

The car drew to a halt outside a large glass skyscraper, and John felt his pulse begin to quicken as the other men got out of the car. Mycroft had been silent for the whole journey, very thoughtful, and occasionally sparing a glance at him anxiously. John had done nothing but worry and vividly imagine all the horrible things that Mycroft would do to him to get information John did not have. It scared him silly, and there was nothing he could do. Mycroft got out of the car, and motioned for John to follow, which John most certainly did not want to do, but a large crowd of armed soldiers had gathered outside the building, and they were all staring at him. He slowly got out of the car, and immediately four soldiers swarmed to his sides, two latching onto his arms to keep him from running off, which, considering the large number of guns pointed in his direction, would have been futile anyway. They led him into the building and into a lift, with Mycroft worriedly checking behind him to make sure John had not escaped his clutches. They rode down in silence, an John put on a brave face every time someone glanced in his direction. However, he could not maintain this bravery when the lift finally opened and he was taken into a room from his nightmares.

The room was lit with those awful fluorescent lights, which, along with the white walls made the room almost blindingly bright. There were only two pieces of furniture in the bleached room; a dentist's chair fitted with special restraints, and a table littered with all sorts of horrible torture devices. It was too much for poor John, who's hands began to shake uncontrollably with sheer fright. Mycroft turned to face him, and John couldn't stop the pleading look from showing on his face. Mycroft smiled tightly, and walked towards him, like a cat playing with a mouse.

He bent over slightly so that his face was in line with John's and said, "Tell me what I want to know, and you don't have to go through this. I can assure you that my men will not hold back to get any information that we need. Tell me your plans regarding Sherlock and Dr. Watson, and I will not hurt you." John believed him, but he did not have the information Mycroft wanted.

"I don't have any plans, I'm not Jim Moriarty!" He exclaimed. Mycroft gave him a withering look, before continuing on in his unruffled manner.

"Yes, yes, we all know how you changed your name to Richard Brook, but really now, I don't have the time for games. Tell me what I want to know." John could clearly see that Mycroft was losing his patience, and desperately began to explain what had happened, but the other man cut him off with a sigh. John would have continued, but Mycroft did not look as though he was going to believe John, so he shut his mouth. Things were really not going well for him, and in that moment he decided he despised Jim Moriarty. He had hated him from the first moment that he had skipped into his and Sherlock's lives, but this was different. This feeling was pure and utter detest for the man who had done so much to make John miserable. John decided as the men strapped him into the chair that he would gladly watch Jim suffer, revel in watching that awful smirk get wiped off his face once an for all. He was not usually the kind of man to hold a grudge or undying hatred for someone, but he felt Jim deserved it. If he could ever make it out of that godforsaken room alive, he would make Jim pay. That, he decided with a burning determination. Though the burning was nothing compared to the agony he felt just a few seconds later as his captors teared into his body with their instruments of torture, causing him pain right to his soul.


	8. Chapter 8: Suspicion

**AN: ****Thanks so much for the reviews guys! It means so much to me! :) here's the next chapter, sorry it gets a bit confusing around the middle with the names, as I'm unsure whether it would be better to keep Jim being called John, or whether I should only do that when it's Sherlock's POV? Any help would be appreciated! Oh and I forgot to put a disclaimer, so I don't own any of the characters, but I wish I did! Enjoy :)**

It was now 5 o clock in the morning, and Sherlock had not slept for even a minute, his brain far too busy for such a boring task as sleep. He had not stopped thinking about Moriarty appearing today, and his accusations of John. He had no doubt that it was meant to signify something, and he couldn't help feeling that there was a message in the man's words, but what? His mind was whirring with so many thoughts that he began to pace, as though the action would speed down his brain to a normal level. He contemplated retrieving his violin from downstairs, as it would almost certainly relax him, but found he was happier staying in his bedroom.

He growled with frustration, unable to find the hidden meaning in the criminal's words. Did he mean that he was going after John next? Was John in danger? With very little to go on, if John was in trouble it would be difficult to keep him from harm's way, especially the evil clutches of Moriarty. Whatever the message was, it would become apparent soon, Sherlock was positive of this. He stopped pacing and sighed heavily before making his way to the kitchen. He had an experiment planned which was quiet so would not wake his flatmate, though incredibly messy so it would be better to start before John awoke, as he would surely start an argument. Sherlock smiled to himself as he imagined John's shocked face and began to gather the equipment he needed.

Two hours later he had nearly finished when he heard John start to come down the stairs, footsteps heavy with the after effects of waking. Sherlock busied himself with his findings, ignoring his only friend as he entered the room and took in the mess that was the kitchen. Sherlock had been experimenting how different liquids and chemicals reacted as they were thrown from different heights and angles at the kitchen wall, noting the patterns for future reference. After all, you never knew what could have occurred at a crime scene. He expected John to make a comment about the state of the kitchen, but he didn't. In fact, to Sherlock's complete astonishment, he ignored the mess completely, instead opening a nearby cupboard and searching for something resembling breakfast.

"John," Sherlock started, but did not know how to finish his sentence, so left the word hanging in the air between them. Jim turned back round to him an gave him a small smile as means of greeting, before turning back to the task at hand. He finally seemed to find some kind of cereal bar and promptly left the room, giving Sherlock another small grin as he passed him.

There was something going on, Sherlock was sure of it. John had never acted like this before in all the years he had known him. He was pretty sure John had never picked up a cereal bar before in his life, instead preferring toast or a scone as a form of breakfast. Also, John would always have a cup of tea to wake him up after sleeping, claiming it helped him to get through the day. This new routine of his was completely unexplainable, and Moriarty's words echoed in his head, putting doubts where there had never been doubts before. Not to mention the fact that John had not blinked an eye at Sherlock's experiment, and he always got annoyed since he was undoubtedly going to be the one to clean it up. Deciding there was need for an investigation, Sherlock followed John into the lounge and watched as he turned on the TV and munched happily on his cereal bar. Sherlock added this to his mental list of all the things John was doing peculiarly that morning, which had now come to at least five. He watched John as he picked a silly reality game show and began to watch it, smirking occasionally at the stupidity of the contestants. Sherlock sat down awkwardly on the other sofa and watched John intently for any other weird occurrences. The other man noticed him staring, and frowned at him, questions filling his eyes. When no answers came he shrugged and turned back to his show, apparently dismissing his friend's states as the norm.

Sherlock began to worry that Moriarty had planted something in John's brain, a cause of resentment, a drug, anything that would explain his abnormal behaviour. After a few more minutes of staring, Sherlock decided that he needed answers.

"Is everything alright, John?" He asked, warily. Jim turned to face him, with a smile forced on his face.

"Yes, why wouldn't it be?" Jim replied, and Sherlock did not miss the dark glint his eyes got, though being a rational man, he put it down to the bad lighting. Sherlock was unsure how to reply to this, and took a few seconds to come up with a reply that wouldn't sound like an accusation right off.

"You didn't have a cup of tea this morning," he said, watching John's face for a reaction. He was surprised when John relaxed, smile no longer forced.

"Of course," Jim said, " I'm actually going to have one now, would you like one?" His smile seemed genuine, and Sherlock wondered if, for the first time in his life, he was being over observant of everything his friend did. Surely he could put it down to nerves that Moriarty was back and ready to play another game? Normal people had similar episodes, did they not? He returned the other man's smile and nodded to show that he would in fact love one of John's amazing cups of tea. It would certainly help him forget about cigarettes for a few short moments, and he would be able to put thoughts of Moriarty aside for a bit. When John returned a few minutes later, he graciously accepted a mug, and let the warmth heat up his long fingers before taking a big mouthful.

He almost spat it right back out.

It was awful, completely the wrong ratio of tea to milk, and it even tasted like a different brand of tea, too. He forced himself to swallow, and took another tentative sip to check that the first horrible mouthful had not been a fluke. It had not. He gingerly put the mug down, and forced himself not to shudder. Looking over to John, he saw the man drinking his tea like everything was fine, and flipping through an old paperback book. Sherlock could no longer deny that something was horribly wrong, for all the evidence he would ever need was right before his eyes. He quickly made up his mind and stood up, walking towards the door and grabbing his coat on the way.

John gave him a questioning look as he opened the door, and Sherlock responded quickly by saying he was going out. Not waiting for an answer, he slammed the door and flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Anyone else would have seen him as being irrational, but Sherlock had learned long ago to trust his gut instincts, as they were nearly always right. He hailed a taxi and clambered in, telling the taxi driver where he wanted to go. The taxi sped away, and Sherlock had a few moments to think through exactly what he was going to say. Mycroft would not be happy with his arrival, but Sherlock absolutely had to see Jim Moriarty. If the man in his brother's possession was really Moriarty after all...


	9. Chapter 9: a Simple Question

**Hi guys, I've decided that to make things a bit easier to comprehend I'm going to start doing character POV's, starting with Sherlock's :) enjoy! **

_Sherlock_

It had taken exactly forty two minutes and thirteen seconds to get to Mycroft's "super secret" building that just happened to be one of the tallest skyscrapers in London. That was twenty one minutes longer than usual, and considering the events that had been taking place I really was not pleased with the inconvenience. I needed to prove to myself that the man being held in my brother's custody was in fact Moriarty and not John, whom I had been growing increasingly worried about. I quickly paid the taxi driver and jogged towards the building, impatient with my body's limitations in terms of speed and strength. I slowed down as I entered the building, giving myself a moment to take in every detail. The receptionist, who was clearly having an affair judging by the state of her hands, smiled at me, though I did not bother to return it with one of my own. I was already starting to walk towards my brother, who unsurprisingly was already waiting for me. His blank gaze told me nothing, although I reasoned that he probably had no idea why I had come to visit him other than the fact that I was eager to talk to Moriarty. He did not know how impossibly high the stakes might become in the near future if Moriarty had not been lying, and was John after all. It worried me, for usually I would have brushed off such careless assumptions, but the evidence was beginning to pile up, and it wasn't looking good.

"I need to see him," I said, positive that this was the only explanation Mycroft would need. My brother nodded and began to walk down one of the building's many hallways, leaving me to trail behind him. We soon stopped outside the lift, and I followed him inside, watching as he pressed the button for a floor well below ground level. We waited in silence as we began our descent, though I was watching him out of the corner of my eye, trying to pick any new information out of him other than the fact his diet was not going terribly well. I sighed, giving up when I found nothing interesting to add to my collection of knowledge. The lift finally reached the very lowest floor of the building, and I moved swiftly out of the door, my patience beginning to wear very thin indeed. There were a couple more brightly lit hallways before Mycroft stopped outside a large, very thick steel door, and swiped a pass key that he had retrieved from his pocket. The annoying blinking red light on the lock turned green and the door opened soundlessly, allowing us to step inside. The room on the other side contrasted so much with the bright hallway that I blinked in confusion. It was a dark grey, and smelled slightly musty as though it had not been used for a while. There were a couple of soldiers inside, rifles raised and ready for combat. On the far side of the room there was another steel door, but this one had a window. I forgot about everyone else as I crept towards the door, hardly daring to look through the dirty glass and into the prison cell beyond. What I saw made me gasp, for I knew Mycroft was known for the harsh treatment of criminals he had in captivity, but I had never been able to imagine this until now.

Jim was curled up in the middle of the floor, completely black and blue from bruises, and his face was covered in blood. There was a large gash down the right side of his face as though someone had taken to it with a cooking knife, and his shirt was ripped so that I could see the mess that his chest had become. It was an awful sight, and I felt my eyes widen with horror. I had never prayed before, as I found the notion of a man in the sky looking down on the human race to be absurd, however in that moment I begged every God that had ever been prayed to that the man in that prison cell was not John. I didn't want to think about the future consequences if my prayers were not answered. One look told me that this man had endured all the pain he could possibly bear. I turned to Mycroft, and before I could open my mouth he stepped forward with his pass key again and opened the door to the cell. I strode in and stood next to the broken man on the floor, my eyes taking in every inch of him. To my surprise, he began to stir and finally opened his eyes, smiling at me even with the excruciating pain that one action must have caused.

"Sherlock," he whispered, voice catching slightly, "Took you long enough." It was exactly the kind of humorous, tension-dissolving phrase John would say, and if I'd had a heart I'm sure it would have broken right there and then. But I had no heart, an I needed evidence to support this man's claim that he was really John, since I had no idea what Moriarty was really capable of.

I crouched down next to him, even though I felt Mycroft stiffen at the action, surely worrying for my safety. I took a moment to come up with the perfect question to ask the man in front of me, before I continued.

"I need you to answer a question for me, as although I would love to be able to take your word right away I cannot afford to be hasty," I started, giving him a moment to catch on to what I was saying. He finally nodded, eyes set with a hard determination. "I need you to answer me this question so that I know if you are telling me the truth," I was unsure about the most suitable question to ask, but finally came up with one.

"When we had an argument during the Baskerville case, what did I say to persuade you to forgive me?" I asked cautiously. It was unlikely that Moriarty would have memorised John's entire life and every conversation we'd ever had for the sake of a game, but I was unsure how far the man might go. I had underestimated him before, but I didn't think he'd have payed close attention to the slight sentimentality I'd shown John that day in Dartmoor.

I watched his face as he closed his eyes and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to place the conversation that had taken place. I could feel Mycroft watching me with confusion just behind where I was crouched, but I ignored him. The man beneath me finally opened his dark eyes and smiled, replying shakily, "You said you didn't have friends. You only had one, and that it was me."

It was certainly a revelation, and I had little doubt that the man was John, considering he had nearly exactly quoted the conversation we'd had that day. However, the knowledge that he was John did not make me happy, for I could see how much pain he had been put through thanks to Moriarty, and I could see that he would never recover fully from the ordeal.

"John," I whispered, watching his face relax with just that word. He closes his eyes, and must have finally given in to the pain, for he lost consciousness. At that moment there was only me and John in that room as I began to wipe the blood away from his eyes and assess his injuries. I knew Mycroft would want an explanation soon, but at that moment my only worry was of John and how much pain he had endured at the hands of my brother. I knew that I shouldn't blame Mycroft, but I was angry that John had not been listened to by everyone, myself included, and it was easier to blame my brother, rather than accepting that I was mostly to blame. I realised that, since John was here and in Moriarty's body, Jim had been living with me for the last few hours. I gritted my teeth to keep from growling, and vowed that I would return John to normal as soon as possible, and that Moriarty would would pay so badly, that when it was over, he would have nothing left to give. This, I would make sure of. For John's sake.

I stopped suddenly. There was something wrong. John's heartbeat had ceased. He was not breathing. _John was not breathing. _Oh God.


	10. Chapter 10: Far Too Close

**Sorry about the cliffhanger guys! I hope you can forgive me, i wasn't planning on it until I had pretty much finished the chapter! P.S Thank you so much for all the reviews, they mean so much to me :) **

_Mycroft _

I could tell something was wrong by my brother's face alone. It had changed from blank and thoughtful to shocked and worried in the space of less than a second. He began frantically checking for a pulse on the man he believed to be John (I really had no idea if his assumptions were correct, but he seemed to believe it so I went along with it) though didn't appear to find one. This had a severe affect on the usually emotionless Sherlock, who frantically began barking orders at my men, screaming at them to find a medic. They stood still, unsure of what to make of the situation they were witnessing, but one stern look from me scattered them to do my brother's bidding. I walked over and crouched next to Sherlock who was still checking for signs of life on John, and again failing to find any. I opened my mouth to reassure him that a medic would arrive soon, but he turned to me with such a blazing hatred in his eyes that I clamped my mouth shut quickly. He began to scream and rant at me that it was all my fault, and I was so shocked by his outburst that I didn't bother to deny any of the accusations he was making. I desperately wanted, no, _needed_ to know what was going on, but I could see that now was not the time to ask, so I let him finish shouting at me, and calmly stood up, brushing imaginary dirt off my suit.

At that moment, some of my specially trained medical staff arrived and began to work on John, giving him CPR. There were a few tense moments where nothing worked, but finally his chest began to move and he coughed pitiably. It was a relief to me, but there were no words to describe what Sherlock was feeling. So many emotions passed across his pale face that I lost track, and as John stirred I saw him close his eyes from the after effects of averted paranoia. When poor John opened his eyes, he seemed to not register the fact that he had just died, and tried, unsuccessfully I might add, to sit up. He was pushed back down by the medics, who were checking his pulse and blood pressure with the help of various machines, and during that time Sherlock had moved away to give them more space. He stood with his back to the door, and to the people who did not know him, his face held no expression whatsoever. However, growing up with him and his moods had allowed me to know when Sherlock was full of emotions but trying desperately to hide them. I could tell that he was angry, though that one word did not begin to describe how he must have been feeling in that moment. One of my medical personnel came over and whispered that they needed to move John to one of the rooms upstairs for a check-over, and I nodded, my eyes still fixed on my brother. As they loaded him onto a stretcher and transported him from the room, Sherlock finally moved from his position at the door and followed them, not sparing me a glance. I followed a few feet behind him, not wanting him to start another argument about who was to blame for the misfortunate occurrence.

They had already put John on a bed in a hospital-like room in the building by the time I had arrived, and he was still awake, though he looked incredibly confused. Sherlock was next to him, murmuring reassurances, which seemed to calm both of them. Once my team had done a check up and determined that John was not likely to stop breathing again anytime soon, I encouraged them to leave, giving the three of us some alone time to talk about current matters. I closed the door behind us and turned to face John, who was watching me, and Sherlock, who was not.

I directed my first question at both of them, unsure who would answer. "What happened?" I asked, knowing neither of them needed any more explanation than that of what I wanted to know. I realised from the look Sherlock gave John that he didn't really know what had occurred either, so we both watched the injured man in the bed as he decided how best to word the events. He no longer looked as though he was about to keel over and die, which was certainly a bonus, and I figured that my staff had given him painkillers.

"It was Moriarty," he began, and I had to force myself not to roll my eyes. "He took me after our...Um.." He looked at Sherlock, "Conversation..." He said, and I realised that there had probably been an argument between the two of them before John had been kidnapped. "I don't really know what happened in between, but I woke up attached to some kind of machine, already looking like this. He had my body and I had his." John looked back and forth between us, deciding whether we believed him or not. Sherlock nodded at him to show he should continue, and John did so after a slight hesitation. "It was really quite terrifying, to say the least!" He said, and gave us a small, brave smile as he admitted this. "Then, I punched him in the face, he put me in a prison cell, and everybody left." His smile grew even wider when he mentioned about hitting Jim, and I could see Sherlock struggling to contain his own grin. It looked as though John had nothing left to say, so I decided to ask a few of my own questions, even seeing Sherlock's annoyance when I did so.

"How did you escape from his prison?" I asked, though I had already guessed the answer. He told me about managing to jump the man who gave him some food, and he finally seemed to realise how easy his escape had actually been. I cut in before he could start to question this out loud, asking what he had done when he escaped.

"I ran straight to Baker Street," he replied and I could see Sherlock stiffen, knowing what was coming next. "I didn't really think it through very well, I just needed to warn Sherlock. I didn't know what Moriarty was planning to do! It could have been awful... So I just rang the bell, and blurted everything straight out when he answered the door... Not my best idea I know." Sherlock's face was blank, but I could see the shame and regret in his eyes. I gathered my thoughts, reasoning that my response should be comforting so that John would stay calm.

"We know what's going on now. We can capture Moriarty and find a way to reverse what's happened," I said, fully convinced we would find the criminal soon, especially if he was unaware of the conversation between Sherlock and John.

"I'm afraid things are not going to be that simple," said a voice behind me, and I turned to see what looked to be Moriarty in John's body, surrounded by armed men, pointing guns at us all. _Oh dear,_ I thought.


	11. Chapter 11: An Unexpected Proposal

**Thanks so much for the reviews guys! You're all so nice :) Here's the new chapter, enjoy! And don't hesitate to review ;) Oh, and Happy Easter!**

_Sherlock_

There was suddenly no doubt for any of us that what John had been saying was true. The living proof was standing in front of us, pointing a gun at Mycroft. Though I wouldn't normally object to anyone pointing a gun at my brother, the fact that it was Moriarty made my teeth grit with anger. I was desperate to make him pay for his actions against John, but there was no way I would be able to get to him before he fired the gun. For a second I wondered how long he had been standing there, listening to our conversation, but soon realised I didn't care. What mattered was getting out of this situation alive, and preferably with Moriarty dead or safely behind bars.

"So, the genius detective _finally_ figured it out!" Jim sneered, and it looked so out of place on John's kind face that my breath caught in my throat.

"Moriarty," I hissed, giving him a glare that would have put any normal person in their place, but Jim certainly wasn't normal. He was about as normal as I was.

Jim sneered again, and so began the conversation that would make the day even worse than it already was. "I really thought you would figure it out sooner! I mean, really, it's an insult to Johnny that you took this long, just look at the poor man! He looks like he's been through the wars, right Mycroft?" I was desperate to wipe the smirk off his ignorant face, but was worried that I might hurt John's chances of regaining his own body. It was not a chance I wished to take.

"Now," Jim said, and his eyes flashed with excitement, "Here's the deal. I had hoped you'd be going along with my charade a little longer, but it no longer looks like that's going to be a possibility. I had a huge reveal planned for tomorrow, but since you've already figured it out that wont be necessary. However, I still need John because I have a particular client who wishes to see proof of the existence of my machine before he invests. Therefore, as soon as John has recovered enough to be moved, he will be coming with me." He grinned at us all, and I realised that there was no way in hell I was going to let that happen.

"You cannot possibly be serious!" I exclaimed, letting a sneer equivalent to Jim's own fill my face. "There is no way that you can just take John. You have nothing that would ever make us change our minds on the matter." But again, I was unprepared for the criminal's response, though I really should have seen it coming.

Jim smiled warmly at me and moved his gun away from Mycroft, and let it settle against his own head. I was shocked for a moment, before I realised exactly where he was going with his actions, and how I had been so very wrong. He held all the cards in this game.

"You know I'll do it Sherlock," he said, "I'm sure the good Doctor Watson would hate to spend the rest of his days looking like he does now- imagine the fuss it'll cause! Do you know how many of my enemies would love to kill someone so vulnerable?" There was nothing I could say in this conversation, so instead turned my focus to John, who was looking very pale. However, he held my gaze, and even offered me a small smile, though it held none of its usual warmth. We both knew that there was little we could do in the situation, and that John was going to have to comply with his demands. I hated to give up so easily, but there didn't seem to be any way round it. John. Turned and nodded at Moriarty, who in turn smiled back at us both.

"Excellent," he said, "I'll pick him up at your flat three days from now, should give him plenty of time to heal, no?" Our anger and hesitation to agree must have been like a beacon to Jim, as he picked up on it immediately. "It's for the best, in fact, it'll work out great for all of us. I'll need to demonstrate the machine to my client, which will give John his body back. Then, I won't need him around any more, so I'll let him go. He'll have to find his own way back to you, of course but it shouldn't be too hard for a man of his age, right?"

How I longed to punch Jim in the face, but I restrained myself, as it was sure to only make matters worse. It did seem like the best option, though only if Jim kept his word. The gun was still pointed at his temple, and I couldn't afford to let him damage John's body beyond repair. When neither of us replied Jim took our silence for agreement, and raised his eyebrows at my brother, looking for confirmation that he would be able to leave without interference. Mycroft looked back at me before leading the criminal out of the room, undoubtedly back to the safety of his car.

I began to pace with frustration, hands tightly folded into fists as I tried to come up with a way to get us out of this situation. I could feel John watching me, but I needed time to think. Distractions like conversations we both already knew the answers to would not help. When no answers came I growled for what must have been the tenth time that day, and sat down at the bottom of John's bed, clenching and in clenching my hands repeatedly. I didn't really think this would help, but there was nothing else to take out my anger on. John finally spoke, and be sounded so forlorn that I didn't bother to ask him to be quiet so that I could think.

"I know the situation isn't ideal, Sherlock, but it isn't as bad as it could be. I'll get my own body back, and we can be rid of Moriarty for a bit. Just you and me, solving cases like usual. It will be great, I promise." He smiled at that, and I could only return the gesture. We would get through this, like John had said. We would survive.

If only I'd known how wrong I'd been.


	12. Chapter 12: The Visitor

**Wow! 18 reviews, I'm so happy guys! You're all so nice as well! I don't think I've had one bad review yet! :) Hope you enjoy this next chapter, it doesn't have so much action in it, but that will all come soon, I promise! And the more you review, the quicker I'll make it happen ;)**

John

_Ouch_. My whole body was alive with pain, even though I'd had over two days to heal. The only part of me that had escaped the pain was my big right toe, and I couldn't find it in me to be happy about it. I hadn't come out of my room since we had returned to Baker Street, for I had been only too happy to get under the covers of my own bed and just sleep for a while.

I had mere hours until Moriarty would arrive and strip me of the bliss that was my own, safe room, and it worried me. I really didn't want to go with him, but I didn't see another choice. I needed to be back in my own body, as I was still so very uncomfortable being in this one. For one, I was in constant agony, and for another, I was really embarrassed to wash or use the toilet, as this was _Jim's_ body. I didn't think he would share in such stupid ideals, and it was also creepy to think that he had seen my body with no clothes on. I mentally shuddered, and tried unsuccessfully to push the thoughts out of my head. I needed a distraction, so attempted to get out of bed. Needless to say, it didn't really turn out how I had planned, and I knocked my lamp off my bedside table while I struggled to regain my balance. It crashed onto the floor and I winced at the sound. My knees threatened to buckle, but I managed to support myself against the wall until they felt stronger. The lamp must have made a louder sound than I thought, as I soon heard Sherlock come running up the stairs, calling my name. He opened the door, breathing heavily, with all his muscles coiled as though he was expecting an attack. I grinned sheepishly at him, and after he spotted the lamp he relaxed.

"You need to stay in bed, John," he murmured, and I gave him my best tantrum face by means of saying there was no way I was going to stay in bed for another day. I would die of boredom otherwise.

"I'm fine!" I said stubbornly, and to prove this to him I pushed myself off from the wall, though this didn't work out how I'd hoped. My quaking knees collapsed and I fell to the floor, my head narrowly missing the wall. Sherlock immediately ran to my aid, and checked me over before helping me up. I thought that he would escort me back to my bed, but to my surprise he sighed and helped me to hobble towards the door and down the stairs into the lounge. He put me on the sofa and ran off to get me a cup of tea, which was a very unexpected offering.

"I should get into situations like this more often if it means you're going to actually do work around the house!" I grinned at him, and he rolled his eyes. Passing me the tea, he sat down, and began to drink. I turned to my own mug, and watched the movement of the light brown liquid, my head full of passing thoughts. I could feel him watching me, but I ignored his stares. I could say I was fine all I liked, but we both knew it wasn't true.

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and began to pace across the room, desperately searching for a solution to our troubles. He suddenly turned and met my gaze, eyes alight with an inner flame that only appeared when he was in deep thought. "You can't go with him," he said, simply, and as much as I wanted to argue for the sake of it, it would do me no good. "You could barely stand this morning, he cannot possibly expect to move you for the pleasure of some stranger!" His deep voice echoed in the tiny room, and I rubbed my face with my hands as I felt the start of a migraine begin to creep up on me.

"He can do what he likes," I said mournfully, "Everything I need to return to normal is in his possession."

"But you might die if he tries to make you do too much too soon! Surely he has the intelligence to see that!" Sherlock was shouting again, and I didn't have the heart to tell him to lower his voice. There was no one to hear, anyway.

"I'm sure it's not a priority of his," I suggested sadly. "He probably won't even want his body back considering how damaged it is..." Sherlock looked as though he was about to say something, but at that moment the door opened, and Lestrade walked in.

"Sherlock, we've got a new case-" he began, but stopped short when he saw me, his face paling. My eyes widened as I realised what he must be thinking, seeing the face of Jim Moriarty, and desperately watched Sherlock, waiting for him to say something, anything* before Lestrade called his men to arrest me.

"Lestrade," Sherlock began, momentarily filling the tense silence. "It's not who you think it is, so please do not do anything irrational such as calling any of your friends." Lestrade's mouth dropped open, and he began to stutter, completely unsure what to reply.

"So, is it like his twin brother or something?" Lestrade tried to lightheartedly joke.

Sherlock scoffed and said, "Of course not! That would be most improbable. Moriarty switched bodies with John thanks to a new invention of his, and we've had a hard time with the consequences."

Lestrade gave a short laugh, before Sherlock's narrowed eyes tipped him off to the fact the detective wasn't joking. "So twins are improbable, but switching bodies is the likely scenario? No offence but are you completely here today?" Lestrade said incredulously.

Sherlock, ever the polite gentleman, rolled his eyes and was probably about to make a rude gesture whenI decided to cut in.

"It's really me, Greg," I said, and winced at how high my voice was. "Sherlock might be an arrogant git sometimes, but he wouldn't ever believe someone without solid proof." This seemed to win over Lestrade, and he relaxed slightly. He was still tense, but appeared to want to know some more facts before he made his decision on whether to believe us.

"Alright," he said, sitting down on the sofa that I was not on, even with the look that earned him from Sherlock. "Start from the beginning, and try not to leave anything out."


	13. Chapter 13: A Turn for the Worse

**20 reviews! I love you guys so much :) Special thanks to tardis-blue-jay and Saavikam69 for your multiple reviews! Now, on with the story, action will probably come soon if you guys keep giving me good reviews!**

_Sherlock_

It had taken far too long to convince Lestrade that we were telling the truth, and even longer for him to leave. It was now only two hours and thirty six minutes until Moriarty came to take John away, and seeing his exhausted face reminded me how much he'd been through. He had been asleep earlier, and I'd taken the opportunity to have a heated argument with Mycroft over who's fault it had been that he was tortured. For the strangest reason, my brother blamed me, saying that John was my friend and that I should have believed him right off when he'd come to me. There was no way that I would ever accept such a ridiculous statement, after all, Mycroft was the one to take John away and interrogate him, not me. Eventually we decided that we both had to take a share in the blame for John's misfortunes. This had only happened after I'd thrown a couple of heavy books at him, and he'd threatened to have me detained.

John was awake now, and though he hasn't said a lot I could tell that he was busy worrying about the next couple of hours. The conversation with Lestrade had gone down as well as any conversation that disproved most scientific laws could go. However, Lestrade had wasted time that we could have used planning for any unexpected happenings in the hands of Moriarty, and to say I was angry was an understatement. There was always a small chance that Jim would keep his word and play fair, but I highly doubted that he would in this situation. In fact, I was 98.5% sure he would have a dirty trick up his sleeve that would either end up with John dead or injured. Or at least, more injured than he currently was. There was no way of knowing exactly what Jim was thinking, for as he had said at the pool, what felt like years ago, "I'm soo changeable!" It would be very difficult to predict what his plans might be, which made it virtually impossible to counter them. I sighed heavily for the sole purpose of catching John's attention, and he finally looked up at me.

"We have two hours and thirty...three minutes until Moriarty arrives. We have no chance of him missing this date, nor do we have any way to hide you. It would be risky to meet his bluff, as we don't know how likely he is to kill himself just to spite us. Mycroft has been absolutely no help in this situation, and I don't think we can rely on him to get you out of Jim's clutches if need be. The same goes for Lestrade. We have no idea who his client is, nor exactly what he wants, and I doubt we can reason with either of them regarding your health. Have I missed anything?" I said, though I already knew that I hadn't.

"No, you haven't." John said quietly, and I could see him flinch at his own voice. I couldn't get used to it either, but John had full out refused to talk more than was necessary for fear of hearing it. There was another long silence as we both considered what would soon happen, and desperately tried to think of ways to prevent it. The problem was, there weren't any. Moriarty had been thorough with his planning, and hadn't left room for mistakes.

There was a long, tense silence where the only sounds were the cars moving outside and the occasional creak from the flat's floorboards. John finally broke the silence with a sentence I never thought I would ever hear him say.

"Let's just give up, Sherlock," he said while I gawked at him. He fidgited with his hands before continuing, "There isn't going to be an easy solution out of this mess, so why don't we enjoy the time we have left?" For once, I was speechless. I finally realised how much my only friend had been broken by this experience, and I was desperate to make him feel better in any way I could. I gave him a small, pitiful smile as means of acceptance of his wishes.

"What do you want to do, then?" I asked him, and I couldn't help but see the similarities between this conversation and one where John had only moments left to live. I pushed the thoughts out of my head, trying my hardest to delete them like I did with so many other thoughts and memories. It was no use. They were still there, waiting to make me feel even worse than I already did.

"Play your violin for me," he said, and I gave him a quizzical look. Normally, John would complain that my playing kept him from sleeping at night, or that it would distract him when he was trying to do something. He seemed to know what I was thinking, and smiled at me, saying, "I know I normally get really annoyed at your playing, but I just realised I never really appreciated how much I enjoy the sound of you letting your emotions run free for a while!" I'd never thought about it like that, and I was surprised that he'd see it in such a way. I did tend to keep myself on an emotional lock-down most of the time, but when I was playing I couldn't seem to stop myself from letting my emotions tumble out.

"Of course, John." I said, and my voice caught on his name. I reasoned as I fetched my violin that John was not dying, and so all these emotional outbursts were completely irrational. However, for once in my life, I left the argumentative voice in the back of my head and tried not to think about it too much. I really wanted to see John be happy even for a little while before Jim took him. I was determined to make him smile.

I returned to my spot in front of my only friend and began to play my favourite piece for him, letting the music swirl around the room and fill it with a light and cheerful tune. It wasn't very long, but it was full of changes in tempo and note length which made it all the more interesting. I soon finished, and turned to see John grinning at me happily, traces of former worries receding into the back of his mind. I returned his smile with one of my own, and was about to comment on his happiness when a voice behind me interrupted.

"That was really quite impressive!" said the man, and the happy moment passed as me and John returned to reality. A reality that was not looking very good at the moment, to say the least. I turned to face Moriarty, who was standing in the doorway, grinning like a madman.

"Sorry I'm early, boys, but my client really can't be kept waiting. I hope you don't mind the intrusion?" He skipped forwards, flanked by three other men who were each holding a gun, pointed at me. I heard John sigh heavily behind me, and I wanted desperately to turn around, but I could not tear my eyes away from Moriarty's face. He did not deserve to wear John's smile as his own, and to turn it into something that could only be described as manic. He tutted when he caught sight of John on the sofa behind me, and made a comment about us mistreating his belongings. I couldn't stop myself from darting forwards and attempting to hit Jim, but he had obviously expected an attack and sidestepped my punch easily. His leg kicked out and tripped me, and he used my momentum to push me onto the floor, where I hit my head which left me dazed and unable to do a lot. He giggled at me and jumped over my sprawled body, jogging over to John and inspecting him. I turned my head and fought a wave of dizziness as I watched Jim's men latch onto John and begin to drag him off the sofa.

"John!" I mumbled, and I'm sure I looked very pathetic. I had a coppery taste in my mouth which I realised was blood, and spat it out. I could only watch as John was forced across the room and out the door, groaning from the pain of being moved. I fought to sit up, but a certain consulting criminal saw this and pushed me back down again. He rolled me over with his foot before crouching next to me, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

"You know, I don't think we'll be seeing each other again for a while! Isn't that sad? I'm going to need to rebuild Johnny's strength before I get my body back, so I might have to keep him a little longer than planned. That's ok with you, right?" His giggles were really getting on my nerves and I thrashed an the floor, desperate to get up and help John. He shook his head and tutted at my feeble attempt, before retrieving something out of his pocket. My eyes widened as I realised what it was, and I could do nothing as he inserted the syringe into my arm.

"Can't have you running off to get your brother, can we?" He smirked, and I could see him waving as he walked away. My vision began to blur, and though I tried my hardest to stay awake, it was no use. In a matter of seconds, the darkness descended on me, and I was unconscious. My last thoughts were of John, and they were of happy times, when we knew nothing of Jim Moriarty and his evil intentions, just me and my friend, living in our own, care-free world.


	14. Chapter 14: The Man

**Hey guys! I need a bit of advice- would you rather I dragged this story out a bit and turned it into a small series, or wrapped it up in another 10 chapters or so? It's your choice, and I'm happy to do either! I've got a bit of a plan how it would work for both ways, but I'll have to put it down to a vote! :)**

_Jim_

_I had actually done it._ It was a relief to have escaped the close proximity with the Holmes brothers, and a rare feat if the word of my business associate was to be believed. I had successfully driven off with John Watson in my possession, and I had not a scratch to show for my endeavours. To be completely honest, I had really expected more of a fight from both brothers, as Sherlock was presently lying unconscious on the floor of his apartment, and Mycroft had not even shown his sorry face. The thought made me smile, and not for the first time that journey I wished I could be there for when Sherlock awoke. His face would undoubtedly be priceless.

I glanced over at my sleeping prisoner, who had been unceremoniously dumped in the seat next to me as we made our hasty escape. The man was at more damaged than I had been led to believe by my sources, and had lost consciousness from pain half way down the stairs. It was for the best, as he had stopped his groaning, and it made carrying him much easier for my men.

We were now four hours into this godforsaken car journey and I was bored as hell. I had switched cars a few times at various checkpoints which would make it much harder for the government to track my movements, but that meant I now only had one guard in the car with me, and he hasn't said a word since we'd left. He had obviously been too well briefed, and was now worried for his own safety. The problem was, the silence was killing me, and the only interesting thing I could do was inspect John as he slept, which could hardly be considered entertainment. The only thing I could hope for was that he would wake soon, at least then I would be able to have a proper conversation with someone. It was weird seeing my own body slumped next to me, and I couldn't help but glance over at John's face, taking in every detail. The thing that confused me was that when I looked at him, I had little or no desire to return to my own body. I had been certain that the experience of being in John's body would make me long for my own, but sometime between arriving at Baker Street for the first time as John and drugging Sherlock I had unconsciously made a list of reasons I didn't want to be me again. It hurt me to accept it, but I actually liked John's body better than my own. It had certain qualities that I couldn't quite put my finger on, though there was one that I could clearly identify. This body was not being hunted down by unhappy clients and gang leaders. It was not going to be tortured by Mycroft Holmes, especially if he was still intending for John to have it back at some point. And, the best part, even if there was no way for John to return to this body, the older Holmes brother would not damage it. I had made this assumption based on the fact he really would not want anyone outside his little circle to know this technology existed. Therefore, he would not have a good reason for taking me into the darkest depths of MI6 and torturing me for my misdeeds. He wouldn't risk it. This thought brought a smile to my lips as I made a decision. I would fight to keep this body for as long as I lived, or at least until a better one came my way.

After another hour of driving through seemingly endless countryside, we finally pulled up outside an expensive looking estate. The house was huge by any standards, and looked like something out of a magazine. My client liked to live extravagantly, and had not failed to impress me with his lavish lifestyle. I had not lied to Sherlock when I told him I had an important client, but I may not have fully emphasised why I needed John with me so desperately. My client had contacted me asking for proof the machine worked and promising he'd fund me if I wanted to make more to sell around. The one thing he wanted in return, apart from use of the machine, was my body. He said he knew a lot of people who would love to get their hands on Jim Moriarty, as I owed them quite a lot of money. I had originally declined, but seeing as I now wanted to stay in John's body, I couldn't see the harm in giving him what he wanted. He could give John to his 'friends' so long as they didn't kill him, just in case I decided I wanted to be me again. It was unlikely to happen, but I've always liked to be prepared for all possible situations.

My client had told me exactly what his plans were for the machine once I had proved it worked, and they were positively exquisite. The man planned to send some of his employees to switch places with people high up in the government, and therefore set up a government as much under his control as the Prime Minister, though probably not as much as Mycroft Holmes. It was certainly an interesting idea, but it wasn't nearly so glamorous and complicated as one of my own plans would have been.

As the car came to a stop, a group of rough-looking men with guns came and surrounded us. I was not worried, as my client was under constant threat of being attacked, so kept soldiers and guards with him as much as possible. The security on the house was very impressive, though would certainly not be difficult to overcome by someone of my intellect. A guard opened the door to my car for me, and I stepped out, trying my best to keep my face as neutral as possible. No need to give these trigger-happy hooligans any reason to doubt me. I watched as two of them grabbed John and dragged him out of the car, and for a second I thought I saw him begin to stir, but he remained unconscious. I was quite disappointed, but there was certainly a promise of an interesting conversation inside with The Man, as he liked to be known. Despite many popular beliefs, it was Irene Adler who had stolen his name to use as her own and not the other way round. 'The Woman' was not nearly so effective in my opinion, though there was a heavy amount of bias considering I really did not like her at all. She had been fun and even interesting at first, but then she had gotten too involved.

The Man was waiting for me as I made my way inside, and he grinned at me when he caught sight of me. "At last! I thought you would never arrive," he said, and there was a ark glint in his eyes that I was slightly nervous about. Everyone fears something, and my fear was the man in front of me. There wasn't a man on this earth who wouldn't be scared of The Man if they met him, even for a couple of seconds. He could do awful, terrible things to people that made them curse the day they were born, but he could just as quickly give them food or money and a joyful smile. There was no way to know how he would react to something until he did, and if he didn't like something you were as good as dead. He was my idol, and I longed to make as much of an impression as he did when he walked into a room.

"I trust you brought him as well?" The Man said, and I grinned at him before gesturing to John.

"Of course, Father!" I said, "when have I ever let you down?"


	15. Chapter 15: Turning Tables

**Ok I've decided that I'm going to finish and tie up most loose ends in this story, but leave a few thugs unsaid to make way for a possible sequel! I'll let you know if it's going to happen nearer the end of this story, though I might take a break in between since I have exams :/ Here you go, chapter 15!**

_Mycroft_

There had not been enough time for a detailed plan where Moriarty was concerned, but there was no way I was going to let him get away with kidnapping my brother's best friend. His only friend, in fact. Therefore, I had decided it was necessary to take the criminal by surprise and capture him at Sherlock's flat. Moriarty had announced that he would arrive at 221B at approximately half past four, so had made it really quite easy for us to determine when to strike. It was now time to do so, and we crept up the stairs, determined that we should not give away out arrival to the criminal mastermind. I reached the door and let out a long breath. I couldn't hear anything happening on the inside of the flat, which worried me. I wasted no time and quickly shoved open the door and strode in, ready for anything. Well, nearly anything. I had not been prepared for Moriarty to have already left with John, making my efforts completely unnecessary. I cursed under my breath as I took in the scene, and my eyes finally came to rest on Sherlock, who was lying unconscious on the floor. He was bleeding slightly on the head, though it didn't look life-threatening. I walked quickly over to him and bent down to take a closer look, relief filling me as I saw he was breathing. Just drugged, then.

He chose that moment to wake up, and when he saw me kneeling next to him he grabbed my jacket and pulled me closer, eyes wild and confused. "Did they take him?" He whispered, and I gave him a small, hesitant nod. He released his vice-like grip on me and his arm flopped to the floor. His expression turned into one of defeat, and there was nothing I could do to comfort him. I left him lying in his self-pity and found my guards, who had been checking the room for clues as to what happened.

"Looks like he came early, maybe a couple of hours ago?" One said, and I sighed with frustration. The security cameras had shown him come up to the flat barely five minutes ago, but the evidence suggested otherwise. He must have hacked the cameras and set them to play the footage a couple of hours later.

"See if you can find out where he went after this," I said, gesturing to the room around me. They began to set up computer equipment and I took the opportunity to look round for evidence of my own. Sherlock was struggling to sit up, and I left him to it knowing he wouldn't want my help or condolences. The events played over in my mind as I took in all the little details, how they had been sitting on the sofa when Moriarty arrived, how Sherlock had attempted to punch the man and had been sent sprawling on the floor with a harsh kick... Everything. I could even see where they had dragged John across the floor in their hasty escape, and reasoned that Sherlock couldn't have done anything to prevent it. There had been three other men with Moriarty judging by the footprints, and he had come with drugs to knock Sherlock out if he became a problem. He evidently had.

I heard a crash and turned to see that Sherlock had knocked a mug off the table in his desperation to stand up. He attempted to walk over to me, no doubt to try and recollect his pride, but collapsed after only a couple of steps. Any other time I would have smirked at him for his inability to accept he shouldn't be trying to move until the drug had worn off. As it was, I couldn't. John meant a lot to him, and neither of us had been able to help him in any way. In fact, we'd probably only made it worse. My brother began to shout some sort of instruction at me, but his words were slurred and I couldn't make it out. He looked positively haggard, and his eyes were wide and looking desperately round the room. It was a pitiful sight, and not one I wanted to see longer than necessary. Fortunately his eyes then closed as he drifted back into the unconscious state he had been in when I arrived. I motioned to two of the soldiers and they picked him up, dropping him into the sofa. I then texted Anthea telling her to send for a medical team to check for any after effects of the drug.

I sat awkwardly on the edge of the sofa next to my brother's head, and took a moment to rub my face with my hands while no one was looking. I had a lot of stress from other urgent matters, and I really didn't want to add this to my list of things that needed to be resolved. I had always secretly been protective of Sherlock and to see him hurt this way brought out my sentimental side, which hadn't made an appearance in years. I longed to play with his dark curly hair like I used to when we were young, but if he woke up while I was doing it we'd both be embarrassed. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding, and surveyed the room. If we were unable to retrieve John, who would keep watch over my brother? I could not voice my opinion to Sherlock over the matter, as he would deny any possibility of John not returning to Baker Street alive, but he had to face the facts. His friend had been taken by a ruthless criminal who cared less for John than a complete stranger. Moriarty would not have bothered to keep John for this long if he did not have plans for him, and any plan of Jim's was likely to lead to at least one horrific death. With no idea where he'd gone, or who his "client" was, the possibility of John still being alive was growing smaller and smaller. The tables had turned, and now instead of Sherlock leaving behind everyone he'd ever known and loved, it was John who would pay the price of death.

"Sir, we found footage of Moriarty leaving Baker Street in a black car from two hours ago," one of my men said, and I snapped out of my dangerous sentimentality. I jumped up and walked briskly over to their laptop, watching the footage of Moriarty. Perhaps there was hope, after all.


	16. Chapter 16: Perception

**Hey guys! Sorry this chapter isn't very long, but it is needed in the story to introduce you better to Moriarty's father, and the effect he has on people. Happy reading!**

_John_

I really did not want to open my eyes. I already knew what I'd find, judging by the number of voices I didn't recognise. It was, as Sherlock would say, "obvious" that Moriarty had kidnapped me and got away. I briefly wondered why Mycroft had not found his way to me yet, but I suddenly remembered exactly what had happened in the flat. Sherlock.

Was he alright? I'd seen Jim crouching over him and taunting him, and Sherlock had been covered in blood from where he'd tripped over. I had only caught a glimpse of him as I'd been dragged out of the flat, but he'd looked unconscious. Had Moriarty killed him? No, it wasn't like him to kill the main pawns in his games, it was likely he'd only drugged Sherlock to stop him from fighting back. I must have blacked out shortly after, as I had no memories of leaving the flat. I was no longer in as much pain, but I still felt like I'd been put in a food blender turned on high. Now the question was, where was I? And was I in any immediate danger? I strained to hear what the people were saying around me, but I couldn't. I only knew that I was in a room somewhere, lying on some sort of sofa or bed, and there were at least three people in the room with me. One of them was definitely Jim, as I would know his scarily high pitched voice anywhere. It was a voice that left death and destruction in its wake, and had caused me so much pain I still occasionally had nightmares. Jim was talking to the other people, and from the sounds of it they were discussing me. I fought a wave of panic as I heard them start walking towards me, and I tried to keep my breathing heavy and regular to look like I was still asleep. Their conversation began to get clearer as they moved closer, and I could make out most of what they were saying.

"He looks positively broken, son. What ever happened to him?" A man I didn't know said, though his deep, echoing voice held enough power and authority that I immediately decided I would be better off not knowing him. It was obvious that the words 'kind' and 'loving' did not exist in this man's dictionary.

"Mycroft Holmes happened, Father. I told you he will do whatever it takes to get what he wants," Jim replied, and something finally clicked in my head. _Father_? Jim Moriarty had a dad who he still kept in touch with? How had I not been informed of this? Surely Mycroft would know! Though, come to think of it, I never got told anything useful when it came to the Holmes brothers. Sherlock may well have known this little fact for a while and just never bothered to tell me. It was a speciality of his to withhold information, thereby making it impossible for anyone else to work anything out before him. It was a neat trick, but really not the most helpful in this situation.

"He's awake," the older man said, and I realised I must have put on a distasteful expression when thinking about Sherlock's lack of forward-thinking. I could hear Jim laughing, but it was different somehow, not like his usual giggle. I mentally smirked as I realised Moriarty was trying to impress his father by acting more manly.

"Open your eyes, Johnny!" Jim said, and he did not sing the line like he would have usually. I had little choice in the matter, as I had always been a curious being and really couldn't stop myself from catching a glimpse of Moriarty's father-figure. However, as soon as I saw the man I knew exactly what I was dealing with. He immediately caught my attention, being tall and bulky, and his eyes were dark and vicious. There was definitely a slight resemblance between him and his son, though there was no room for games in those eyes. They were captivating, and I found I couldn't look away, no matter how hard I tried. He smiled at me, though it was a cool smile that definitely did not reach his soulless eyes, and could certainly have been called 'malicious' and 'cruel'.

"He's perfect. Those idiotic thugs will never see the difference. When is Salem coming to collect him?" The man asked Jim, though he kept his stormy gaze trained on me. I began to squirm with discomfort, because this man truly frightened me. Jim had always been a cause for alarm whenever he had made an appearance, but seeing this man, I would take Jim over him any day. I really didn't ever want to meet this man again, and judging by what he ha just said, I didn't think I would be. I was now quite certain of what they needed me for, and it wasn't as proof of the machine's capabilities. They were going to give me to some of Moriarty's enemies for them to torture or kill me. There would be no reason to suspect I wasn't Moriarty, after all, I had his body and voice. They would be merciless and they would hurt me. I decided I had really had enough of people hurting me.

"A couple of hours!" Jim grinned at me.

_Ah, hell._


	17. Chapter 17: I'm On My Way

**Hey guys! Sorry I didn't update last night, but I had to redo this chapter because I didn't like it that much... Anyway, here's a better version, as you can tell there's gonna be a lot of crazy stuff happening soon, so stay tuned!**

_Sherlock_

Ugh... What had happened? It took a few moments for my brain to sort out the events from last night. Then the world came crashing down around my ears. _John._

I quickly sat upright, too quickly maybe, for I felt dizzy from the effects of the drug Moriarty had administered to me. I blinked away the dark spots in my eyes as the room finally stopped spinning and I was able to conclude that I was on the sofa of 221B, and I was alone. I had no doubt that Jim had got what he came for, which I deduced from the fact John was nowhere to be seen. Though someone, most likely Mycroft, had visited recently, as I distinctly remembered passing out on the floor, yet I had woken on the sofa. Most likely in the last couple of hours.

I had expected a few gaps in my memory as was usual after being given drugs designed to incapacitate you, however I could remember everything. I remembered Moriarty arriving, and I remembered John leaving. How long had I been out? Surely not more than a few hours, but even that small time frame would have given Jim all the time he needed to escape. With John. Was he alright? Had Jim hurt him? Was he even still alive? There were so many questions, and so few had answers that I knew of.

I heard the door open and I turned to see my brother sweep into the room in his usual fashion. I had not heard him come up the stairs, so it was safe to assume the drug had not fully worn off yet.

"How long?" I asked before he could open his mouth.

"Ten hours." He replied monotonously. Much worse than I'd anticipated, then. I tried not to let the shock show on my face, but I think my mouth may have opened slightly, giving my feelings away.

I didn't need to ask him if they had found John, his face told me as much. Most people couldn't interpret the facial expressions of Mycroft Holmes, but living with him for a large proportion of my life had given me some insight into how his brain worked. We were similar in more than a few ways, though I would never admit this to him. We each waited for the other to start a conversation, but there was nothing to be said. We stayed in that fashion until the deafening silence was too much, even for me.

"There must be a lead, a clue to where they've gone," I said, and I hated the way my voice sounded like a whimper. I reasoned that John would be calm and collected if the situation had been reversed, so cleared my throat and stared out the window to avoid any eye contact with my brother. Eye contact would surely start an argument of some kind, and I really wasn't in the mood at the moment. I heard him sigh quietly, and I did not flinch as he came and sat next to me. Really, I didn't. That would have been very thoughtless of me. Then again, when had I ever cared what my brother thought of my antics?

"We thought we had a lead last night, but Moriarty had prepared himself better than we had, and managed to switch vehicles at certain points in his journey. It will take days to track him that way, and I fear we do not have that long." I scowled and was about to say something very rude and filled with sarcasm, when he continued.

"However, though we do not have their location, we do have the name of Moriarty's 'client', the one who will be investing in the machine," I raised an eyebrow at my brother, silently hoping that this information would lead us to John before it was too late. "Edgar J. Moriarty is his name. Jim's biological father, also known as 'The Man' by those who work for him."

Well, this was certainly interesting, to say the least. I hadn't expected Moriarty to still have a parent who he kept in touch with, though from the sounds of it this man may be even worse than his son. However, the real question was, what did he want with John? There were lots of possible answers to that question, and none were particularly desirable.

"I'm guessing you've found his location," I said, though it wasn't a question. Mycroft would not have let that bit of information slip unless it was actually helpful in the situation. My brother's smile was contagious, and I breathed a small sigh of relief that we were no longer clutching at straws. There was no way it would be as simple as it seemed, but for the moment I could only rejoice in the possibility of getting John home alive. Even if we couldn't change him back, we would find a way through. Life would carry on, and we would adjust.

"There's a team being sent up to his estate as we speak. I doubt there's anything I can say to make you stay here given this information, so I've taken the liberty of organising a private helicopter for the both of us. It leaves in fifteen minutes, since we have no time to spare concerning the doctor." I grinned at him and ran to get my coat. This week had certainly been strange, though very exciting and therefore not dull or boring at all. This was what I lived for, this rush of adrenaline that came in the face of danger. I only wished that John was safely here with me, that he could be here to experience the thrill of a spontaneous trip to catch a criminal mastermind.

Fifteen minutes later, we were in the helicopter and it was taking off. I watched as buildings and trees diminished rapidly in size, and the people wandering the streets of London became tiny dots as we gained altitude. The early morning sun was just rising in the far distance, and I had to shield my eyes from its sudden glare. Just a few hours, and then we would arrive. God help anyone who got in my way, especially anyone with the name Moriarty.

There was a plan for when we got there, though Mycroft had yet to explain it to me. However, I didn't doubt my brother's capabilities, and I knew the plan would get as many people out alive as humanly possible. It would work, and John would be safe. What was happening to him now? Were we doing the right thing, or was this all a trap? Was Moriarty hurting him somewhere, giggling as he cried out in pain? I shook my head to clear away such unhappy thoughts and began a mantra that certainly didn't help John, but nonetheless comforted me.

I will find you, John. I swear I will bring you home safely. Don't give up, wherever you are. I'm coming.


	18. Chapter 18: Impulses

**Hey guys! I've actually planned out exactly how this story will end now, and I've even got it down to the names of the last few chapters! I can promise excitement, angst and nail-biting moments to come, but only if you give me lots of good reviews ;) Sorry for the blackmail, but the number of reviews for new chapters has been decreasing, which makes me really sad :( Anyway, here you go!**

_Jim_

The blaring alarms startled me out of my deep thinking, but I quickly realised their meaning and let my mouth relax into its usual smirk. The alarms signalled an attack and break-in, which could only have come from the actions of a man I knew well. It had taken Sherlock less time than I had imagined, though I supposed it was to be expected when you had close contacts such as Mycroft Holmes. I decided it would take them a few minutes to find me in this particular lounge considering the size of the manor house, so I took a sip of my red wine, and put my feet up on the sofa I was perched on, which Father would certainly not approve of when he found out. If he found out.

I heard footsteps and shouting outside the door and took another sip, forcing my face not to scrunch up from the bitter taste. I really didn't know what all the fuss was about concerning expensive wine, it all tasted the same to me. I was only drinking it now as a minor rebellion against dearest daddy, one he would probably not bother to punish me for. I wasn't completely sure he wouldn't, as he was a very hard man to predict, which was one of the many traits I'd picked up from him in my childhood years. However, much as I had tried to turn out like him, I had not succeeded. This was probably the closest I would ever come to the intimidating, exceptionally powerful, scary man I had come to know as 'Father'. He did not bother himself with petty crime, only the most unusual or best crimes could find his interest, and you didn't refuse a job from The Man unless you had a death wish. I had spent my life trying to earn respect from him, for him to be proud of his only son, and I believed I had partially succeeded in my quest for this. He now referred to me as 'Jim Moriarty, my son' when he introduced me to his acquaintances, which was certainly an improvement over completely ignoring me.

Suddenly, the door burst open and three soldiers strode in, weapons raised and pointed at my head. One began talking into his earpiece while the others ordered me to raise my hands in surrender. I rolled my eyes and gestured to my glass, which would surely spill all over the cream carpet if I tried to set it down anywhere. I was not stupid enough to let that happen to Daddy's carpet. For a large proportion of my childhood he cared about this carpet more than me. The gesture earned me a glare from all three men and I had a feeling their patience was wearing thin. Therefore, I slowly raised the hand which was not holding my glass above my head, and gave them one of my famous death-glares. They looked very uncomfortable, and I sneered at their inability to properly do their job after being faced by one unarmed man. Sherlock chose that moment to stride into the room, parting the three soldiers with only his hands as he stalked towards me. He grabbed my throat with his hands and forced me up off the sofa. I hissed at him as a drop of wine fell onto my expensive dinner jacket, though I was secretly glad it had not gone on the floor.

He leaned in close and growled, "Where's John?" Which only earned him another smirk from me. The detective tightened his long, cold fingers around my neck and I suddenly found it difficult to breathe. I attempted to sigh, but it the sound that came out of my mouth was too hoarse to be called such. I gestured that he should remove his hands if he wanted me to answer, and he let off the pressure enough that I could speak.

"You just missed him," I said, aiming for my words to echo with intensity around the room, though when it actually came to it they only came out as a whisper.

"Where?" His eyes narrowed with hate and anger as I gave him a toothy smile.

"You won't find him in time- they left an hour ago," I said, still struggling for breath. "I can tell you that they've gone to Paris, and that he'll be given to a gang named Les Guerriers. If I gave you any more information it would be too easy!" I grinned at the outrage on his face, and half prepared for him to punch me again. He was beginning to vibrate from the effort of holding himself back, and I took pleasure in it. However, Mycroft finally made an appearance by his side and put a hand on his shoulder, signalling he should step back. Sherlock physically deflated as he let go of my neck, standing back as his brother had wanted. However, he obviously decided to reward my sneer with a childish action of his own, and as he moved away one of his hands came up and knocked the glass out of my hand, spilling the wine all over the floor. I gaped at him in shock, and he gave me a smirk in return. I felt rather than saw Mycroft stiffen beside me, and his guards quickly grabbed my arms to stop me from responding to Sherlock's actions. A tense silence followed where no one spoke for fear of casusing me to react out of anger. Instead I surprised them all by giving a short laugh, purposely sounding like one of John's own, and began to tut at Sherlock, shaking my head.

"How immature!" I said to Mycroft as he led me away.


	19. Chapter 19: Always Watching

**Hey Guys! I can tell that this story will be finished in just a few more chapters, so hang in there! Sorry if there are a few mistakes in this chapter- I haven't had time to proof-read it so you'll have to try and make sense of it on your own! **

_John_

He was _still_ watching me.

He had been watching me this whole damn flight, not that I could say anything. I'd been gagged and bound as soon as we'd left the estate, though I had absolutely no idea of our destination. I was thoroughly surprised that I had not been drugged, or at least been surrounded by armed guards during the flight, but Moriarty's father obviously wanted to watch me for some unknown reason. Well, I certainly would not let him have the satisfaction of knowing how much his stares creeped me out. I shut my eyes and reminisced about my adventures with Sherlock, the happy memories keeping me from going crazy. Easy banter in the living room at Baker Street. The excitement when a call from Lestrade allowed us to sprint from the flat, barely time to get our coats. Deducing the lives of passing strangers. Insulting Anderson and Donovan. Ordering a take-out and relaxing in front of the TV. Solving a particularly challenging and complicated case. The memories were endless, they were so frequent I had no trouble bringing them up. I could almost forget that I was sitting on a plane that was taking me to certain death with the father of a man I hated beyond any doubt.

Eventually, my thoughts returned to the events of a few hours ago, when I had awoken to Jim and his father discussing my fate. I did not regret my next actions, though they certainly changed the two men's opinions of me. I was not really in the best condition to do what I did, but I had the element of surprise on my hand, and a lot of pure, blinding fury that I aimed at Jim, spurring me on. To be brutally honest, it shouldn't have worked, but when I forced myself off the sofa and threw myself at Moriarty, I had a huge rush of adrenaline that sent us both straight onto the floor. The impact jolted me slightly, but it full on knocked Jim into a disorientated mess. He gazed up at me, dazed as I pushed myself up and began to hit him in the face. It was my face, I knew, but at that moment I didn't care. His father watched with a mild interest as I punched his son, over and over until I collapsed from exhaustion and pain. I hadn't hit him as hard as I would have liked in my weakened state, but it would certainly leave a few bruises. Jim's head seemed to clear and he pushed me off him, rolling me over so he was on top of me, an then he proceeded to give me the same treatment. It hurt a lot, and I desperately tried to stop him from hitting me, but it was no use. He got in a good four punched before his father cleared his throat, drawing our attention back to him. The disappointed look he gave Jim made him flinch, and I smirked at him even with the fresh pain on my face. Moriarty slowly got to his feet, giving me a look that was an imitation of his father's, though very much watered down. I doubt anyone could fully imitate his father's look. The man gave me a look-over, before swiftly turning and exiting the room. Him followed like a lost puppy, turning to give me a withering look and slamming the door behind him. It was certainly a change from his normal demeanour, and it certainly annoyed me less. That was how I stayed, on the floor, unmotivated to do anything else for the time being, and waiting for someone to come and collect me. To take me to my death.

I was jolted into reality by a quick swerve of the aeroplane, and looked out of the window to see we were over a large body of water. I attempted to sigh, but I couldn't do so very well with a gag, so just watched the clouds go by as we flew further away from home. When the plane finally landed after what felt like minutes but must have been nearly an hour, I closed my eyes and refused to open them. I was happy in this moment, well, as happy as I could be considering my situation, and I really didn't want to get off the plane. Unfortunately, that wasn't my choice to make, and soon after two pairs of strong hands gripped my forearms and hoisted me out of my seat. When I opened my eyes, I was not in the least bit surprised to see that _he_ was still watching me, and if I wasn't so worried about the consequences I would have rolled my eyes.

There was not a lot I could do as I was forced out of the private jet and into a waiting car. I had attempted to free my hands without raising suspicion from my captors, but it seemed as though Moriarty's father was just as sharp as Sherlock, for he gave me a raised eyebrow in response. He then gave me a look which I could clearly interpret as 'I wouldn't do that if I were you', which effectively stopped my attempted escape. Not for the first time I wished I was in my own body, as it was obvious Jim had never entered a gym, and he seemed to have the same problem as Sherlock when it came to eating. It was nice to be taller for once, but it just made tripping more frequent.

The car journey was very awkward, as it was just me and Jim's father in the back, which was separated from the two drivers by a tinted glass window. He continued to watch me with great interest, and I continued to ignore him. It was really concerning me, as it almost seemed like he was imagining how I would taste if he were to cook me. He surprised me by leaning over and removing the gag in my mouth, as though he was preparing for a conversation. I didn't really want to talk to him at all, but again, I had little choice in the matter.

"The world is a strange place, but its inhabitants are stranger," he said, and his voice was low like Sherlock's, but there was no emotion in it that I could hear. If Sherlock though he was emotionless, he should really meet this guy. "Seeing you here, in front of me I can only wonder at how my son could ever willingly give up his body to swap it with yours. No matter, it serves a purpose, and all will end sooner rather than later." He smiled, but I could only recognise it as a smile because of the way his dark eyes glinted. There was no happiness in that smile, in fact, I didn't think he had ever been happy in his life. Except maybe after killing young children, I could imagine that would make him happy. I smirked at that thought, which earned me a glare. It was not a glare in the normal sense, such as when Sherlock was annoyed at his brother for intruding. No, this was a look that silenced an entire room, that would put fear in even Mycroft's heart, that signified your death was near. I swallowed loudly and looked away from those soulless eyes to the world outside. I managed to gather that we were in outskirts of Paris, which made me happy as I had never been before. I wished Sherlock was there, or anyone that I knew, rather than all these strangers that wanted me the people walking around slowly, I envied them and their straightforward lives. They had probably never been kidnapped or threatened or tortured. However, I also pitied them for the same reason. Their lives could not possibly be as interesting as my own, and I was happy with the lot I had been given in life, whatever the consequences.

We finally pulled up outside a low, boarded up apartment complex and the car stopped. The place had death and destruction written all over it, literally if I was reading the graffiti right. We certainly were not in a nice place, though I don't suppose I had really expected anything better. There was no hope for me now, my time was pretty much up.

_Goodbye, life, nice knowing you_... I thought as I was forced out of the car and escorted into the building.


	20. Chapter 20: Certain Privileges

**Ooh exiting times coming up guys! How do you think it's gonna end? I'll give imaginary cookies to the closest guess, or the one that makes me laugh the most! Two different POV's this chapter, and sorry for the cliffhanger!**

_Mycroft_

What on earth was I going to do with my little brother? He never thought about the consequences of his actions, and surely it would get him or someone he cared about killed someday. How he had managed this long without a major injury was perplexing to say the least.

We were in a car, driving through the streets of Paris with not much luck at all. Thankfully, Moriarty had been brought into custody with no fuss, and had been sedated for good measure while we prepared to follow The Man and John to France. I had been hesitant to trust Moriarty based on the fact he always seemed to have some trick up his sleeve, but with little else to go on we had taken a jet straight into Paris. As soon as the information had left Jim's lips I'd had various employees checking for the existence of the so called 'Les Guerriers'. They had relayed to me that the gang was based in Paris and that they had been involved with Moriarty before, which allowed us all to hope that Jim had been telling us the truth and not just leading us on a wild goose-chase.

I looked across to Sherlock, who was staring out the car window wearing a look of intense concentration. I knew that he was worried about John, however hard he was trying not to show it. We had been driving round for the last hour, and it seemed as though we would not find the poor man in time. Our only hope was that we would stumble across the hideout of the notorious gang, and convince them to let John go. We could only hope that they thought he was Moriarty, and would believe us when we told them it wasn't true. If they didn't believe us, or already knew about the circumstances that had led to this moment, my men would have to take out as many as possible, preferably before the gang killed Sherlock or John. Unsurprisingly, my brother had decided, no, _insisted_ he was going to go in alone first to try and talk to their leader, though he assured me he would would be accompanied by a group of Britain's best soldiers if there was any sign of trouble.

That's what he thought was going to happen, anyway. In actual fact, he would barely be given a minute to talk to the leader before the soldiers were sent in. The French Government had been informed of our endeavours in Paris, and had offered a large sum of money for the extermination of Les Guerriers. It was certainly a safer plan, one which would ensure Sherlock lived, though it may pose a larger risk to John, since they would most likely kill him immediately if they knew there was no hope of escape. From what I had gathered, their leader really hated Moriarty an had made it his mission in the last couple of years to have him killed in the most painful way. It had something to do with large unpaid debts, and the man's quest for revenge may lead him to kill John before our soldiers could take him out. I had no doubt Sherlock would oppose this plan, so I had neglected to mention it to him, or the money the French were going to offer to us if we completed the job. It was for the best.

I sighed quietly. If John died because of this risky plan, Sherlock would never forgive me.

* * *

_Sherlock_

_There._ It was a large abandoned block of apartments, with boarded up windows and a small garden that had been very neglected. It stood out to me, mainly because of the man stood in the entryway. Why would an abandoned building need a guard? Obvious. We had found what we were looking for. I caught Mycroft's eye, and he seemed to realise what I was trying to get across to him, as he leaned forward and tapped on the glass partition which separated us from the driver. The car continued round the corner and out of the guard's line of sight before slowing down and stopping around the side.

I was desperate to get out and impatiently opened my door, but I was stopped by a restraining hand on my shoulder from my brother. "Be careful," he said which was his version of 'good luck'. Mycroft Holmes didn't need luck, and he certainly wouldn't lower himself to wish it on anyone else. I nodded quickly and practically threw myself out of the car, immediately slinking into the shadows of the late afternoon sun. It was fitting that this would finally end, one way or another, at sunset, the end of the day.

I walked briskly to the side of the building, and considered how I would get into the multi-storey block of apartments. It was easily deducible that they were in the basement, a stupid cliche that criminals never seemed to stray from. There wasn't an open window I could see, which meant I would have to take out the man guarding the front door. Thankfully, he was too busy playing on his mobile to be a problem. As I gently lowered him to the ground after a quick blow to the head, it dawned on me that they really should have hired a guard who could actually do his job. Then again, considering they were based here*, they probably didn't have the funds for skilled employees. Silently opening the door, I surveyed the dark, dirty hallway before making my way inside. They couldn't possibly have made it any easier.

I followed the hallway to a set of stairs that descended into the darkest depths of the building, and was about to take a step down them when I heard a sound.

Shouting, coming from beneath me.

Then, a gunshot.

I didn't think about anything as I sprinted down the stairs and threw open the door at the bottom. Every eye in the room turned to me, but I could only look at one man.

"John!" I breathed. Tied to a chair, bruised and bloody, but very, very much alive*. He looked at me and smiled, and I could only smile in response. Unfortunately, that's when I felt the sharp pain in the back of my head, and I fell to the floor. I heard John call my name, but the room was spinning and I could only moan in pain.

"A bold move, Mr Holmes." A voice said, and I looked up to see a man pointing a gun at my face.

"I know how much you want to kill him too, but I've paid a lot of money for this privilege, and you will not get in my way." With that, he turned around and pointed the gun at John's exhausted, but otherwise expressionless face.

"You don't know how long I've waited for this!" He declared, and I could only watch in horror as he pressed the gun to my best friend's forehead. It was all over. _We had lost the game._


	21. Chapter 21: Eyes in the Darkness

**Oh no! I just realised that thanks to the last chapter, I lost the game :/ did any of you guys lose too? Anyway, loving the responses to my last AN! I think we can all agree that tardis-blue-jay wins the award for the most hilarious! And as for starkit, we'll have to wait and see, won't we? ;) you might have to forgive me for the farfetchedness of this chapter, but it is a story, my story, and this is how it's gonna roll!**

_John_

The dark, eerie building sent shivers down my spine as I was escorted inside, and I had a rare flash of insight that no matter what I did, I would never be warm again. The place scared me right down to my soul, if I did actually have one after all. It might have been the fact that I would almost assuredly die here, but I was sure even coming here in broad daylight with Sherlock by my side would have left a similar impression on me. The Man was in front of me, and had been since we left the car. I was surprised he had not just dropped me off outside the building and made a run for it without fear of being caught. Yet, here he was, looking right at home in this dismal building. If he had a soul I imagined it would have reflected the building we were in, dark and cruel, never touched by love or compassion. No wonder Jim had grown up to be the way he was.

We reached some stairs that led downwards into an even darker, more ominous room (if such a thing was possible). I did not bother to hide my distaste as we entered a grey, washed out room with flickering florescent lights and a dark concrete floor. There was a cheap looking metal chair in the centre of the room, and for what must have been the fifth time in the last few days I was strapped to it and abandoned by the guards who had been flanking me.

A tall man in an expensive suit moved forwards out of the shadows, and even I could see the similarities between him and Moriarty. He grinned at The Man, and gave me a smile with too many teeth that immediately left me on edge. This guy was the big boss around here, and he made sure we all knew it, barking a quick order in French to a man by the door, who retreated up the stairs. He turned back to us, and sauntered slowly over with every bit of confidence he could muster while in the presence of the most intimidating man he'd ever meet. Moriarty's father only watched the man, with a complete lack of enthusiasm at his approach, I might add. He faltered under The Man's stares, but made it across the room with his head still held high, wearing a slightly forced smile.

"Sir," he greeted The Man, and I suddenly realised that no one here knew he was Moriarty's father. They would undoubtedly have been wary of The Man just handing over his only son (that I knew of- who really knew what strange family members the Moriartys were in possession of?) and completely convinced he was trying to con them.

Moriarty's father did not reply to the other man straight away, taking his time to show the other man who was really in power. "Don't kill him too early. Make sure he suffers first." He said, and the gang leader flinched slightly, no doubt wary of the man in front of him.

"Of course not," he replied having regained his composure. The Man simply nodded, and much to the surprise of the others in the room, turned and left through the door. It was so unexpected that everyone could only watch as he disappeared. Shaking his head in confusion, but making no attempt to follow The Man, the gang leader turned on me and grinned harshly. I let my face go void of any emotion as he started towards me, though I fiddled with the ropes that tied my hands together behind my back.

"Hello, Moriarty!" The man laughed at my lack of reaction, and swiped me across the face with the back of his hand. It hurt, but it did not compare to the other forms of pain I had endured these last few days. My face was already black and blue, one more bruise was certainly not going to make a difference. I raised my head in defiance and he laughed at me again. "I bet you thought we would never find you again, no?" He said, and his voice was heavily accented, which only made him more terrifying, as now I really couldn't help comparing him to Moriarty. "Now, you will pay, and the world will finally be rid of James Moriarty!" I remained composed as he reaches into his pocket and retrieved a small gun. He raised it to my head, and began to laugh at how stupid I'd been 'falling into his trap'. I had no idea what he was on about, but I soon realised that these idiots had neglected to tie my legs to the chair. The man was saying something about pain, but I was only paying attention to the fact that he had lowered the gun to my right shoulder, and was just close enough to kick. As he pulled the trigger I shoved my leg upwards and into the side of his knee, knocking him sideways just as the gun exploded in his hand. Unfortunately, the bullet still skimmed me, and I gasped at the new pain on my arm. Warm blood trickled down from the wound, staining my shirt a bright crimson, but I ignored it, frantically pulling at the ropes behind my back. It was no use, and the other man climbed swiftly back to his feet and slapped me again. This time I saw stars across my vision, and the room tipped as I blinked.

He was about to say something, when the door opened, and I turned to see Sherlock, eyes blazing in determination. His stormy gaze found mine, and he visibly relaxed. I grinned at him, but my smile faltered when I realised he was alone. Why had he come all this way, prepared to fight anyone to bring me home, without any back-up?

"John!" He said, and I before I could even open my mouth, he was lying on the floor, one of the guards standing over him, gun raised as though ready to hit him again. Sherlock groaned and I felt my own features twist with fear and anger.

"Sherlock," I whimpered, and I could only watch as he moaned again, head bleeding slightly where the gun had hit him.

"A bold move, Mr Holmes," the man before me stated, and he moved towards my friend, gun raised threateningly. He started talking about something, but I could only concentrate on Sherlock as he moved his head painfully. It took me a few seconds to realise that the gang leader had returned his attention to me, and the gun was pointed at my head.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting for this!" He said, and as he pulled the trigger the world slowed down, allowing me to see everything. I saw Sherlock, eyes wide, mouth open in horror, ready to scream my name. I saw the man in front of me, eyes full of hatred mixed in with childish glee. I saw the other people in the room lean forward simultaneously in anticipation. And then... I saw a man. Not just any man, The Man. He was in the doorway, and I could see his eyes glittering in the darkness. His teeth glinted as he smiled, and I realised something was about to happen. He turned away and retreated into the shadows just as the gun fired, the sound echoing through the room. Time sped up again, and I realised something.

The gun had not fired.

I looked at the gang leader's face, and could only see my own confusion being mirrored. He tried again a few more times before throwing the gun across the room, growling and muttering in French. Grabbing the first gun offered to him, he turned back to me again, ready to fire, and collapsed.

There was silence in the room, which, naturally, was broken by the consulting detective.

"He's dead..." Said Sherlock, and the way he raised his voice at the end of this short sentence gave the impression that it was a question.

_But who had killed him?_


	22. Chapter 22: Lean On Me

**Sorry for the wait you guys- I had a severe case of writer's block :S Anyhoo, I'm sure you can forgive me considering how regularly I was updating before this! I've got an ending planned that certainly sets it up for a sequel, but I'm not sure what exactly I'm going to include in it, if I do one at all! It depends on the response to this story! Any ideas or thoughts would definitely be appreciated :) Probably another two or three chapters, I keep getting sad whenever I think that it'll all be ending soon!**

_Sherlock_

He was dead. Not dead as in jumping off a building and pretending to have died so that you could hunt down a criminal network dead, but honest-to-god not breathing, glassy eyed, no pulse dead. He had collapsed onto the floor, convulsed for a few seconds and then lain still, hand still outstretched, clutching the gun that would have killed John so easily if not for this unexpected turn of events. No one moved even after I proclaimed the man was no longer alive, we were all transfixed, watching and waiting for him to jump up and laugh as though he'd planned it all along.

My brain frantically began to work out all the possible reasons for the man's death, but from where I was still sprawled on the floor it was difficult to tell exactly why he had died. While I was trying to figure this out I was simultaneously beginning to stand and move slowly towards the body, which is when everything started moving again.

I heard one of the men shout something in French that sounded an awful lot like 'that asshole killed the boss!' Suddenly they were all moving towards me and muttering obscenities that I couldn't quite catch, though to be honest I'm sure I really didn't want to know. I inched my way towards John, thinking that at least I could attempt to protect him from any more harm for the time being. However, all was not lost as in that moment the sound of dozens of sets of footfalls reached my, and therefore everyone else's, ears. As the gang members began to panic and frantically call out in confusion I have them what I hoped was my most triumphant grin. Then, the door flew open and smashed against the wall as a group of Mycroft's special service soldiers entered the room, guns high and aimed at everyone but me and John. I finally began to relax, after all, everything would soon be over. However, I had thought this too soon, for at that moment I heard someone behind me scream a long command in rapid French that I did not understand. All soon became clear as I turned to see him with a gun pressed to the side of John's head. People seemed to have a habit of pointing guns at John with all that had happened. I rather hoped that this wouldn't be the last time it happened.

I put my hands out to the frightened man in a way that I hoped was calming and that would potentially stop him from putting a bullet in my flatmate's head. This only appeared to aggravate him more as he began to tremble, still spluttering unintelligible French. John did not look overly concerned with the fact he was being threatened, but he may just have been exhausted and rather bored of all the attempts on his life recently. Mycroft's men moved into action, swiftly positioning themselves next to each member of the gang and making them crouch in surrender, ignoring the commands of John's captor. No one moved any closer to him for fear of John being shot as a result of their action, but a few trained their guns on him. I was still moving slowly towards him, even attempting to smile in a non-threatening way, but the man wasn't taking it. He finally realised he wasn't getting anywhere with his commands since few could understand him, and so did the only thing he could think of in the situation. He growled something at John in broken English, and John nodded tiredly and standing. He nearly collapsed from the effort, but surprisingly regained his balance. I was surprised that they had not bound John to the chair, but they must not have thought him much of a threat considering his injuries. The doctor was prodded in the direction of the door by the man with the gun, who glared at the soldiers until they moved out of his path. The gunman was nervously looking over his shoulder and around the room in an attempt to watch everyone, but it didn't really work very well. I was quietly fuming, as there was no way I was going to let him walk out with John without a fight. As they passed me I caught John's eye and gave him a short nod I hoped very much he would respond to. He gave me a small grin in return, and at that moment I realised how close we really were. No one else would have been able to interpret such a look, and I was so very glad that I had come to know John Watson.

John turned his head away from me to the opposite side of the room and stiffened. His captor saw the subtle shift in mood and also turned his head that way, poised and ready for anything. What he didn't count on was an attack from the opposite way, and as I brought my leg up and smashed in into the side of his knee, I was pleasantly buzzing with unused adrenaline. The attack did exactly what I had planned it to, and as the man fell to the floor, John twisted out of the way, allowing for Mycroft's men to swarm to the man and keep him on the floor at gunpoint.

John moved to my side, and I let him lean on me for support. We didn't communicate, but the matching grins on our faces said everything. For a few moments we just watched the world go by as the gang members were escorted from the dismal basement, and no one bothered us other than to ask if we were ok. We must have been a sight to behold, with bruised and bloody faces with manic smiles and more bags under our eyes than the local supermarket.

All was not over though, and John turned to me as the last of the men filed out of the room. "How did he die?" He said, pointing to the dead gang leader who was still lying on the floor.

"He was poisoned." I stated matter-of-factly. John nodded as though that explained everything, but still continued to ask questions regarding the man's demise.

"Who killed him?" He asked and it was almost timidly, as though he knew the answer but didn't really want to hear it.

"The Man, of course," I said, and before he could ask why I continued. "For some reason that I do not yet understand, he wanted us alive, so poisoned the leader's drink earlier, which should be obvious enough." I shook my head, struggling to come up with a reason.

"What do we do now?" John asked and I could hear the unsaid thought 'now that we don't have the machine', though neither of us bothered to day this out loud. The Man had escaped, and he still had the machine. John was obviously worrying about the consequences of his return to London looking like Moriarty, and I had the sudden urge to lie to him. Not in a bad way, but a comforting way, to make everything easier.

"It'll be alright, John." I said, and he gave me a small smile for my efforts. We both knew it wasn't true, that the possibility of anything going back to normal now was virtually nothing, but I still had the urge to make him feel better. He must have been rubbing off on me with all his emotions. I could no longer admit to being a sociopath at this rate.

"Well, we're both alive, and mostly uninjured," I said, taking into account how damaged we were both physically and mentally. "We'll work something out, even if we have to consult my brother." I gave a shudder that wasn't entirely fake, and it earned me another grin from my flatmate.

We left the basement, one friend leaning on another, both with matching smiles and the promise that things would only get better.


	23. Chapter 23: The End?

**Third to last chapter guys! So don't read too much into the chapter title ;) I can't believe it's nearly over! Can we get it to 50 reviews before it ends, or am I asking too much? Anyways, here it is! Chapter 23, enjoy my lovely readers!**

_Three weeks later_

As the sun rose gracefully over Baker Street, the inhabitants of a certain 221B were already up and moving around the flat. The events of the last few weeks had taken their toll on the two men, and though at first things had been hard to adjust to, they had in fact settled down to a routine. When there had been no further word of The Man and therefore of the machine, Sherlock and John had tried their best to resume their lives from before. Needless to say, it was a difficult thing to attempt, especially considering John could no longer walk the streets without a large pair of sunglasses and a hat. There was a constant fear for the both of them that John would be targeted by any number of new enemies, and so he tried to stay in the flat as much as possible.

There had been multiple discussions on who should be fully informed of the events, and who should be given a half-truth to keep them from interfering in their lives any more. Those who had been given the truth were skeptical for the first few days, namely Mrs Hudson and Harry, but even they had eventually stopped giving John awkward side glances when they thought he wasn't looking. The story that the others had been given involved John having to leave for mysterious family reasons, and that there wasn't a fixed date for his return. It wasn't the best excuse, and would certainly cause a problem in the near future, but it did the job.

The two friends had begun to create a wall between themselves and the rest of London to try and make things easier, but it was very difficult to uphold. Sherlock still went to cases, but as much as it pained him, he had to go alone. John had attempted to go with him the first time, but there had been a problem in that certain members of Scotland Yard knew of Moriarty, and were quick to make the connection. Therefore, he stopped attending crime scenes and would stay in the flat worrying until his friend returned unharmed, and continued to write up the cases when Sherlock explained them to him. It was a very uneventful life for the doctor, and he often found himself feeling completely useless, which was how he'd felt before meeting Sherlock. Lestrade tried his best to console John by popping round for a chat every couple of days, but it just wasn't the same.

They had a problem with Molly, who turned up unexpectedly one day to deliver more body parts to Sherlock, and had the fright of her life when she saw John. She was given the explanation of what had really happened, and though she tried to be understanding it was obvious she wasn't completely comfortable in John's presence any more. She hurried off as soon as they had given her the main details, and silently vowed not to arrive at Baker Street without an invitation again for fear of what she might find next time.

Moriarty had been kept under constant supervision and had so far not attempted to escape Mycroft's cluches, though no one really knew how long it would last. It would cause a lot of problems if he did get out and decided to reveal himself to everyone. The fact that he was still in John's body was annoying for everyone, since he could not be harmed while there was still a chance of John regaining his own body. However, days had turned into weeks and there was still no sign of The Man anywhere. Slowly but surely, doubt was creeping in at the corners of John's mind as to whether he would ever return to his real body, or if he would be stuck inside the flat for the remainder of his days.

The day was Saturday, and it was exactly three weeks after the events in Paris. John and Sherlock were in the sitting room of 221B, drinking tea and bouncing ideas off one another concerning the most recent case. Though John had been unable to view the body considering his current predicament, Sherlock had taken photos and was explaining his deductions to the doctor in great detail. John watched him with an expression of awe as Sherlock solved the case using only his mind, and he wished not for the first time that he could have been with his friend at the crime scene. Being stuck inside was driving him mad with boredom, but he knew the consequences of going outside.

"Sherlock," John began after the detective had finished explaining how he knew the murderer was the ex-husband. Sherlock glanced up from the case file, and knew exactly what John was about to say, though let him say it all the same.

"What if I never get my real body back? What then?" John asked, and though the consulting detective always had an opinion of some sort, he had no answer to his friend's frantic questions. Sherlock sat back and sighed, running his fingers through his dark curly locks while in deep thought.

"I don't know, John." he replied tiredly. His friend nodded as though he had been expecting the answer, and his features settled into a frown. They sat like that for a while, neither willing to continue the somewhat depressing conversation from where they had left it.

"You wouldn't leave, would you? If I don't become myself again?" John sounded so dejected, and Sherlock nearly gasped at the absurdity of the question.

"Of course I'm not going to leave, John! You make it sound like I only wanted to be your friend because of what you looked like! Give me a bit more credit, won't you?" Sherlock replied, and though he sounded slightly offended he wore a grin which softened the manner of his little outburst. He was even more offended when John gave him a look of relief before mirroring his grin.

"I told you we'll work something out, just you wait and see," said the consulting detective."Even if it is permanent, we'll find a way to live with it, and get things as back to normal as possible!" He said, and before John could reply something undoubtedly corny, the door opened and Mycroft stepped into the room.

"You may not have to..." He said with a barely suppressed grin.


	24. Chapter 24: Dark Clouds are Forming

**Final Disclaimer- I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters (however much I would love to) except The Man, who is entirely my own creation.  
Final Author's Note- I'll try not to go on for too long, as I'm sure you'll all be wanting to appreciate the ending you've all been waiting for! 50 reviews is a lot more than I ever could have hoped for, and you guys helped this story get there. For that, I thank you, and though this story will soon come to a close I want you to know I have every intention of creating a sequel, which will be posted as soon as i have the time. So don't worry, you will not have a long wait! I know I said there would be two more chapters, but I think this one wraps up the story much better than I could have hoped for, and an epilogue would take away the drama from the last few paragraphs! I will be seeing you soon, but for now, good night and sweet dreams.  
-User15**

_John_

When I was young, my Grandma always used to tell me that often the people who seem to have the largest share of misfortune are the ones who get a proportional stroke of luck when they most need it. I had never really understood, nor cared to try and find the significance of that sentence until today.

I could feel Sherlock beside me, and we were visibly vibrating with excitement. When all had seemed the most hopeless, luck had made an unexpected, though greatly appreciated appearance, and Grandma had been proved right. There was such thing as good fortune for those who had suffered, and I had struck the jackpot. My footsteps echoed on the linoleum floor as I made my way across the room, towards what could only be described as my own personal winning lottery ticket. Though most adventures in real life did not have a happy ending, this one was certainly going to be an exception. Sherlock, ever the loyal friend I had pinned him to be when we had first met, was faithfully by my side as I made this short but significant journey, and I wouldn't have had it any other way. As we drew closer to the end of our wait, two pairs of footsteps turned to one as our legs moved in sync. I turned to him to offer him one last smile before we began. He caught my gaze and returned my grin with one of his own, though his eyes soon moved ahead as we neared the far wall of the white room.

When Mycroft had turned up in the flat just a few hours ago to deliver the news that would immediately change my life for the better, I had honestly thought he was joking. Then I had remembered that he never joked, and I had been lost for words. When I finally had looked at my flatmate I'm sure my eyes must have been alight with glee and relief in a way they had not been for a very long time. His expression had also been one of joy, though it soon turned into one of his famous I-told-you-so grins. We had wasted no time, and had dashed out the door of 221B with a spring in our steps, abandoning necessities like coats and phones in our haste. There had been a car waiting, though it was not nearly fast enough concerning my impatience to see if Mycroft had been telling the truth.

After hours of listening to Anthea tap away at the tiny keys of her phone, and Sherlock's occasional grunts of annoyance, we finally arrived. Mycroft had seen no reason to move it down to London while it was readily set up in the warehouse it had been discovered in, and considering how long it would have taken otherwise I was only too happy to agree with him. I had opened the door before the car had fully stopped, which earned me a disapproving glare from the elder Holmes. I ignored the look and instead walked briskly into the building, seriously considering if anyone would care if I started to run instead. Then, Sherlock had joined me, and the urge to rush had fled. We had entered the room together, and after what seemed like an eternity of walking, we had arrived.

I had not had a proper chance to look at the machine the last time I had seen it, but seeing it now still brought unhappy memories to the front of my mind. I winced slightly, but quickly removed all expression from my face when I caught Sherlock staring at me expectantly. At that moment, Jim was escorted into the room by two soldiers, and I was overly relieved to see he was unconscious. I really didn't want him to have any chance of escape before we had been switched back, and preferably none even after we had been. The soldiers dragged his sleeping form across the floor and sat him down in one of the chairs that was connected to the machine. I sat in the other, my hands fidgeting as nerves settled over me. I still remembered the pain from last time, and was not that eager to re-live it, but there wasn't really any other choice. Mycroft had entered the room with a group of scientists, and was watching me, though I chose to ignore him while the group positioned the equipment and began to figure out how to operate it. I marvelled at Moriarty's intelligence for a second, before I caught myself and pushed similar thoughts out of my head.

Sherlock was alternating between giving me worried glances and shouting at the scientists to hurry up. I gave him what I had hoped would be a reassuring smile, but actually turned into a grimace. This only succeeded in making him more anxious, and therefore more likely to snap at anyone who walked past. I started to roll my eyes at him when the two words were said that gave me shivers.

"We're ready," a man said, and Mycroft nodded, though he continued to watch me. I fought to keep my face blank, even though the words sent me silently panicking. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, ready for the onslaught of pain I knew would soon invade my senses. I didn't have to wait long before that pain arrived, though pain was too mild a word for the agony that hit my body. It felt like I was being burned alive, and I'm certain I must have screamed in pain. It had certainly not been this bad last time, though that may have been because I was unconscious. The waves of fire travelled through my body, and I lost track of how long I had been subjected to this torture.

It eventually began to recede and I was able to take a gasping breath before forcing my eyes open. I could sense immediately that I felt different, and wasted no time moving my hands to my face and feeling for familiarity. The relief was overpowering when I felt the features I had been wearing for over thirty years under my hands, and I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding. I looked up and saw everyone looking expectantly at me, and I grinned happily to show them it was me. I turned to see Moriarty in the other chair, face still slack with unconsciousness. Sherlock was stood in the same place he had been when I had been sat in that chair, and he turned to me, his long legs striding towards me, ready to help me up. We had done it. I was in my own body again.

"I think this calls for a celebration!" Sherlock said as he helped me up.

"Oh definitely!" I agreed, "What shall we do?"

"You choose," he said, grinning at me.

I pondered the idea of a nice restaurant dinner, but soon realised there was only one place I wanted to go.

"Let's just go home and get a takeaway!" I said.

So we did.

* * *

Everything was soon back to normal, all loose ends tied up in a nice neat bow thanks to Mycroft. Or at least I thought they were. We wouldn't be troubled for a while yet, but the pain would soon arrive, and chaos would rule our lives again.

In this story, there were so many more yet to be involved, so many innocent lives about to be tainted. If only I'd known what would soon occur, maybe things would have turned out differently. Any other way would have been preferable to what we were about to face.

_I am John Hamish Watson and this was my story, but it's not any more._

It's someone else's turn to play the game.

And this time, they cannot possibly win.


	25. The Sequel is Up!

**Hey guys, this is a note for you all- the sequel should be up tonight! I've sent it for publishing, though they said it could take a while :s Anyway, it's called Faults of the Heart, so look out for it! I'm excited to hear what you think, so please review it when you get the chance!**

**-User15**


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